Charmed
by NominalBeast
Summary: Post-DH. A lonesome Hermione meets Fleur one sleepy London morning after the War. Their lives would never be the same from then on. Femslash. Hermione/Fleur.
1. Two Years After

After writing for 8-hours straight, I present to /u/ and FFN a Hermione/Fleur femslash. Due to my dyslexia, this thing is probably need some serious edits (I tried, I swear). This is the first HP femslash I've ever done, so bear with me.

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**11/20** - Finally coming around to revising it. I still don't have enough free time to start on a new chapter. Gotta study for 'em finals.

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**Charmed**

Chapter 1

Two Years After (Revised)

Hermione Jean Granger had woken up from a strange dream.

It featured two children clinging to her and a crowded Platform 9¾. She had no idea why she would dream of the platform of her school days, but then she had no idea why she would be dreaming such a dream at all. The children were quirky, fidgety, and unmistakably Weasley. A redhead man who she had guessed was Ron (why she did, she had no rational reason why) was ahead, pushing a trolley full of suitcases and a cage occupied by a miffed owl. They were walking briskly towards a more occupied area of the 9¾. The older child, female, looked up expectantly at her as if waiting for some sagely advice.

It had occurred to her that the two children might be hers, but that notion was insane to her. She and Ron had broken up years ago, during a fight that they both saw coming. And through an owl, no less. It devastated her then, so much that she was unable to study for her NEWTs. But she emerged out of them splendidly nonetheless, a fact which baffled her. Perhaps the break up's lack of impact on her meant that they weren't supposed to last, she thought. Perhaps whatever she felt for him could only have lasted in times of war.

The other child, male, had yanked her arm hard for attention, and that was when she had woken up.

Conscious, Hermione looked to her bedside. It was 6:18 AM of a murky April day. The year was 2000. First thought that occurred to her was that she should go back to sleep, but she was feeling too undeniably hungry to do so. And so she emerged groggily from bed.

Ron. She hadn't thought about him for a while. They also never had a proper talk about their break up, despite Ginny's meddling. They were also uncharacteristically civil to each other during their get-togethers. According to Ginny, Hermione was just waiting for Ron to apologize and Ron was waiting for Hermione to not be so ready to hex him to oblivion. Insightful as that was, Hermione wasn't aware that she was angry. And since she has been so busy, she hasn't been meeting Ron or any of her friends all that often.

She was starting to miss them.

As contemplative was she was, hunger prevailed. She freshened up, showered, and threw on an outfit. Figuring that she would have time to come back after the early breakfast, she laid out her work robe across the bed.

Hermione liked Dolahov's Grange for what it was – an austere row of townhouses tucked away from the muggle London. Everything appeared very much like the main road where it branched out from except for the lack of paved lanes. No cars were parked out the front of the houses. No cars within the compound at all, in fact. Each morning she strode through the door was a reminder that she was on familiar ground, magical ground. No cars, no muggles, no one likely to give a flying toss if she ventured out of the house mid-run while she used her ward to freshen herself up. The only thing that drove her out to venture beyond the magical veil that guarded her home was this mom-and-pop bakery just down the muggle road. Each morning the smell of fresh loaves and melted butter wafted into the magical compound unbidden. Many of her neighbors, all partial-blood but too far from their muggle roots to feel comfortable with the muggle world, were tempted by the smell. Yet they dare not seek out the source of the baked goodness, much less attempt to buy some. But Hermione was beyond such fears this morning, as it was with any other morning.

The bakery – Her mouth watered at the thought of it. It was muggle-owned and also known to open quite early. Once she really gave thought to it, the neighborhood that surrounded hers was largely muggle. She had no idea why she chose it. She just needed a place to go to once she graduated from Hogwarts and the place seemed convenient enough then. And there was no way she could have gone back to live with Ron. She had far too much pride for that. She had far too much pride to go live with her parents either. After living in completely different worlds for years, they were now incompatible. And they were still uncomfortable with the fact that their daughter had cast a False Memory Charm on them. Even now, Hermione was still unsure of how well they grasped the magnitude of the Second Wizarding War. And she was sick of explaining everything while they just pretend to understand. Then again, she was sick of a lot of things.

But no matter how out of touch she felt with the muggle world, she cherished whatever amount of time she spends in it. There, she was not Hermione Granger, a muggle-born witch in the Ministry of Magic and friend of the up-and-coming Aurors Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. To muggles she was Hermione Granger, the only daughter to her dentist parents and a freelance writer whose current project she would never show to anyone and whose expression always seemed tired. She also has grown thin over the years, almost unhealthily so.

The perpetual state of incognito was refreshing, like the soft crunch of the warm croissant she was biting into. The walk to the bakery was so short it hardly registered in her mind. The changes to the bakery hardly registered either. With little chairs and tables laid out, it was now more like a café. Back against the wall, she sat. It hadn't occurred to her to bring a book along today, but that made it all the easier for her to daze out of reality.

The door to the bakery opened with a cheery jingle and a woman entered. At that moment, the hardworking atmosphere of the place turned into a smitten one. The young man behind the counter was especially susceptible to the woman's charm, though for a different reason than he would have guessed.

And then entered Fleur Delacour, in a muggle bakery. Perhaps she, too, was beyond such fears.

Fleur was scared of muggles. Not that she would be upfront to admitting it, of course. Their ways were a harder one, impractical and completely foreign to her. But what they lacked in magic they compensated with innovation, and that alone was both strange and admirable to her.

In her mind, muggles were people too. All were people, who are alike in their duality to cause both good and harm. If she shut herself away from the people who, just a short while before, a group of dark wizards were so willing to oppress, what else was there to say about her character? Prideful as she was, Fleur was no oppressor. It was no good to her being a bystander either. Her role in the war had taught her better.

The boyish man behind the counter was eager to catch her attention, but she found herself drawn by the hunched figure sitting back against the war.

She sucked in a surprised breath when she realized that it was not just another pretty face before her. It was Hermione Granger, the one and only. She was the one who had made the pursuit of knowledge a noble one in Fleur's eyes. Though she would have to be both deaf and blind not to notice that her admiration for the woman 4 years her junior was not a purely innocent one.

Her heart began to race, its pulse resonating through her body like a calling drum. The younger woman had not noticed her or her painfully thudding heart yet.

If Hermione was fully aware of who had just entered, she would have instantly scowled. She didn't feel like dealing with a Weasley at the moment, even one that had married into the family and had taken care of her during the War.

The woman, whose initial intention was to get herself breakfast, was distracted by Hermione's quiet presence.

"Hermione? Is that Hermione Granger?"

And thus her state of incognito was destroyed by the voice of Fleur Weasley. Hermione must admit her English was far less accented than before, yet it still rubbed inside her in a weirdly indescribable way. It didn't help that the woman was now walking towards her with a strangely cordial expression. Surprised, she could not bring herself to sufficiently scowl. Instead, she choked:

"Hi, Fleur. Long time no see."

Since the blonde Frenchwoman was a Weasley, Hermione wasn't sure what she has heard about her and Ron. It had been a while since she had last seen the Weasleys, even Ginny, or been to their home. Then she wondered what Fleur was doing here, since Tinworth was ways from London.

"I haven't seen you since the War," she said. "Mind if I sit?"

The last time Hermione had seen Fleur was during Fred's funeral. But they were both too preoccupied then to take proper notice of each other and Hermione hadn't the heart to correct her. Deciding to at least be civil, Hermione shook her head. "Go ahead."

Fleur seemed glad. "But after I get my breakfast first, of course. _Excusez-moi_."

She made her way to the counter and ordered 2 croissants from the bewitched young man. Once Hermione was paying proper attention to the older woman, she saw that Fleur was wearing a cream-colored wool turtleneck and a pair of tight dark jeans. Her blonde hair was tucked into a floppy brown beret. Veela or not, Fleur was an attractive woman who took great care of herself. It was easier for Hermione to admit this ever since her stay at Shell Cottage during the War. Even so, Hermione felt underdressed in her presence and felt frumpy by comparison.

Once properly planted on a seat opposite to Hermione with a paper bag in her hand, Fleur remarked "The croissants here are perfect. Reminds me of home."

It was the first instance Hermione had ever witnessed Fleur praising something. Finishing her own croissant, she could only inwardly agree. Perhaps the bakery was magical in its own ways.

In an attempt to be consistently civil, she asked "How have you been?"

"I am settling in. London is more crowded than what I'm used to. Fish and chips are just too fattening. I cannot bear it."

Hermione blinked, stunned. "You moved to London?"

"For a job at Gringrotts." If Fleur was surprised that Hermione wasn't privy to this tidbit of information beforehand, it failed to show.

"Oh." This was the first time Hermione has heard of it. "Is Bill working there too?"

Fleur shook her head calmly, perhaps far too calmly. "No. We have separated. Have you not heard?"

"No. I'm… not currently in touch with the Weasleys."

"…Ever since Ron… Ah. I do not think Molly forgives him, even now. She would have liked you as a daughter-in-law than she does me."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She was itching for answers. Fleur and Bill seemed the unlikeliest to ever break apart. They were compatible, something that she and Ron was not. "But why? You were good together."

"He had another woman. I walked in on them. Sounds simple enough, no? But it was enough to break us." Any other person would shy away from sharing details, but not Fleur. This aspect of her had not changed, Hermione realized. But Fleur seemed pained by the recollection, even for just a slight moment. Perhaps it wasn't good for her to share at all.

"Sorry. That was impolite of me. I shouldn't have asked."

"_Non_, Hermione." She waved. "You have no idea how great it is to see a familiar face. It's merely an update to my predicament. And I'm not used to you being so meek. What about you? It's been a while since you've graduated from Hogwarts, no? Where are you working now?"

It might be just her, but Fleur was starting to sound a lot like Molly Weasley, of all people. "Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. A desk job, really."

"You are happy with it, at least?"

"I suppose. I took the job for a reason, but even that isn't going well." She thought about S.P.E.W., which she was working on, in her own way.

"That would not do. You are Hermione Granger! You are the reason I even got the job at Gringrotts in the first place! If anyone can do things, it is you."

Hermione sat in stunned silence before turning a light shade of red. It was high praise coming from someone as hard to please as Fleur. It was also the only praise she has been getting as of late. While she was thorough and hardworking, she was also driven and meddlesome. She was not widely liked by her coworkers. It was like Hogwarts all over again, but without Harry and Ron and Ginny and Professor McGonagall.

Fleur leaned in. "Would you like to have lunch sometime?"

Hermione was shaken back to Earth by a lunch invitation which, to her elated mind, sounded at first like a date. "Sorry?"

"Would you like to have lunch? You're probably busy, but it is just so lonely here."

Her heart leapt for some strange reason unknown to herself. "Yes! Definitely." she replied hurriedly before sinking back into her chair. "…But I can't do lunch. I only get 30 minutes for it." _Cursed bureaucrat's lunchtime_, she thought.

"We can do dinner, if you'd like. I have a place in mind. Casual-wear. When do you get out of work?"

"6 sharp." Hermione usually worked on her translation of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ during the evenings, but she supposed she could take a break for one day.

"Tomorrow night, then?"

"Tomorrow night."

"I'll apparate to your office, then. The goblins get tense whenever one of you three appears."

"It's been 2 years!" Hermione huffed.

"1 year and 11 months," said Fleur playfully. "Not so sure about the amount of days, but I'm sure the goblins do. Which reminds me…" Fleur stood and began to smooth out her cream-colored turtleneck. "I must get ready for work. I will see you, hm?"

Hermione nodded. "Of course. Tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night," Fleur beamed. She was gone with a graceful turn of the doorknob and a push, leaving Hermione the happiest she has been in a long while.


	2. The Dinner

The second chapter is already out because I'm desperately trying to convince readers that there is such a thing as a Fleur/Hermione romance in this fic (instead of more of Hermione's angst). I'm also moving and will be without internet access for a while.

**Never expect such haste again.**

I also might have been too hasty to notice any mistakes I've made, so feel free to note them. My dyslexia hates me.

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**Charmed**

Chapter 2

Hermione had not met Fleur the next morning. She had a pleasant dreamless sleep that went well into mid-morning. She had slept so well, in fact, that she had to rush just to Floo to work on time. That also meant none of the croissant that Fleur so highly praised. Even so, she has not stopped thinking about Fleur. And though she would never admit it, she was thrilled about the upcoming dinner. It was the most exciting thing to happen to her in a while and she has been looking forward to it with a schoolgirl's fascination.

Since Hermione was done with her current workload, she was free to daydream. Hiding behind a fearsome stack of reports about Kneazle interbreeding, she was guiltily doing just that.

Hermione was never awfully close with the older woman, she realized. The time she had spent in the Shell Cottage didn't count. She was suffering from the aftereffects of Cruciatus Curse at the time and was willing to be smitten with anyone who was borderline decent to her. And it wasn't that Fleur wasn't nice to her then. It was just hard to view her wartime ties the same way now that the Wizarding world was so peaceful. She, Harry, and Ron certainly weren't the same.

But Hermione was truly far more eager than she needed to be when she had accepted the invitation. Hermione, being as bright as she was, was well aware of the reason why. It had been ages since she last had contact with the people she was so convinced were her friends. No owls, no nothing. Loneliness was making her desperate for any form of companionship. Fleur, on her part, was also pleasant and surprisingly chatty. But that didn't keep Hermione from being deeply embarrassed.

Thinking back, it was funny to her now how much she used to hate Fleur. The blonde's veela blood was potent enough to make just about any pubescent schoolboy march to her drums. Hermione had never been able to do that and her ever-rational mind had never been able to fool herself otherwise.

Was she jealous? Very much so.

But now something else nagged her about Fleur, something she can't yet put a name to. But until she has a concrete proof of something far more sinister, she was willing to take Fleur's invitation at a face value.

Hermione was willing to ignore her gut just like that. The gut that knew that knew Harry's Firebolt was from Sirius Black. The gut that trusted in Crookshanks' intelligence when her friends wouldn't. That was simply how lonely she was.

Hermione's mind still wandered about the dinner. Fleur had said "casual-wear". Such a broad term never sat right with Hermione and only made her fret more. But since Fleur was going to meet up with her in the Ministry, Hermione had no choice but to go in her work clothes. In a way, there was no need for her to worry. But with Fleur and her veela blood, even her Gringrotts robe would charm the sails right off a boat.

As the clock hands drew to 5:45, she found herself cowering deeper into the pile of completed paperworks. She used a quick freshen up spell and hoped that it would suffice.

Like everyone else, Hermione had bolted away from her desk as soon as it turned 6. But many of her colleagues made their way upwards. Only she went downward and lingered in the Atrium in a nervous, back-to-wall manner.

_If only I could see Harry or Ron for just one moment. Just a glance, really._

Stalking was a compulsion she usually suppressed. It wasn't as if she could write them a memo. It felt far too awkward. And since she was waiting for Fleur in midst of all the visitors anyways, she thought she might as well do it.

"Are you looking for someone, Miss Granger?" greeted a wall-hung portrait of an old Newt Scamander. The portrait hung right above her head. He was one of many placed there some time after the War. Considering her jolt, she might have realized it a moment too late.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, leaping frantically to face the balding man on the framed canvas. "I didn't realize that you were there."

Newt chuckled heartily. "You're not the first these days. So are you?"

"Sir?" Hermione was finding the man in the portrait to be quite odd, a trait all Hogwarts headmasters seemed to share.

Newt quirked his grayed eyebrows, amused. "Waiting for someone."

"Yes. A… an acquaintance," said Hermione. She wondered if that was appropriate. They weren't really friends and there was no such thing as comrades during peacetime. Yes. "Acquaintance" would do.

"You would have better luck standing somewhere more easily spotted, Ms. Granger.

"I… Yes, sir. I suppose you're right."

Wishing not to be drawn in further by the old portrait's talk, she walked away from the wall of the Atrium to the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Why they restored the horrid thing, Hermione had no idea.

"_Salut_, Hermione."

Hermione had never learned French. Hogwarts never offered the class and she never found a good reason to pick it up on her own (aside from the fact that, she must admit, the language is quite sexy). But she was English enough to recognize French when she heard it. Because of it, she knew well it was Fleur who was standing behind her. But being a witch without any talents in divination, Hermione did not foresee two slender and unmistakably female arms wrapping around her shoulders.

She yelped rather loudly upon contact.

Fleur giggled into Hermione's wavy brown hair. "I did not expect that." The light tinge of the blonde's French accent rang in Hermione's ear. It was just the right amount of the accent to make Hermione go haywire inside, for reasons unbeknown to her.

Hermione felt her face turning a shade redder, which she brushed aside as an effect of being teased. If it was anyone else, she undoubtedly would have _stupefy_ the person and chucked the stunned body into the Thames.

Hermione wiggled out of the blonde's grasp, scowling. "You're late," she said, matter-of-factly.

Fleur forced her chin up, playfully indignant. "Bah. I am not. The Floo is slow."

As someone who preferred Apparition over the Floo Network, the excuse was an adequate one for Hermione. She began to relax the arm that was mere inches away from her wand.

"Let us go before you become so hungry you decide to snack on me, hm?"

"Let's."

Now that they stood eye to eye, Hermione saw that Fleur was noticeably taller. She wagered the older woman to be about 170 centimeters without her heeled leather boots. It added a sense of reliability to the woman's air, funnily enough. She also noticed an end of a cloth poking out of Fleur's white handbag. Hermione guessed it was her robe, as Fleur was wearing something much more flattering. She was wearing a white buttoned shirt topped by a tan jacket, faded blue jeans, and brown leather gloves. An eggshell blue scarf hugged her neck gently.

"Where are we going?"

"A bistro."

"The French and their cuisine," mused Hermione. "Apparition or Floo?"

Fleur looked down at Hermione's shoes, which were her favorite brown ankle boots. They were not fancy in any sense of the word, but practical and comfy. The blonde nodded approvingly. "We are walking. It's just a block away from the booth I came down in."

"Right," said Hermione, taking it all in. She didn't care much for walks, but she was too tried from staring at parchment all day and too hungry to protest. She felt like being led along like a homeless man following promise of a chicken dinner.

"Exercise!" Fleur clapped, walking towards an elevator. "We witches and wizards never get enough of it."

The elevators and the Atrium were fairly unpopulated since it was after office hours and the more sensible people had already gone home. It was just the two of them on their way upwards.

"Yes, but why make an effort when things are so convenient? Some people just don't have the time to spare, you know?" As Hermione said this, she feared that bureaucracy had gotten to her.

"Bah. You must take time to enjoy the little things."

Cool April air slammed into their faces as they stepped out of the red phone booth. The entire Ministry's underground was magically kept to a comfortable 25 degrees and Hermione, unprepared, shuddered considerably despite her coat.

"This way," gestured Fleur, taking Hermione's bare hands into gloved ones and leading her along. Hermione felt herself slipping away into a light trance. She blamed this on her tiredness and not on the fact that she was being led by the hand by a very attractive woman.

Once they have established a steady pace, Fleur began: "Do you have siblings?"

"No. I'm an only child. You?"

"You saw Gabrielle during the Tournament, no? She is my only sibling - My precious sister."

"Yes, I remember her." More specifically, Hermione remembered a desperate Harry and his attempt to save both Ron and Fleur's little sister. And a drenched and desperate Fleur, but Hermione decided that she could go on without mentioning that.

"I didn't see you this morning."

"I woke up late."

"Ah. I almost thought that you were avoiding me."

"Why would I?"

A pause, then a change of subject.

"Granger is not a wizarding last name."

"My parents are muggles."

Fleur turned to look at her. "Do you see them often? You look so thin - so it must not be."

Hermione wasn't aware of her state of malnourishment. The mention of her parents caught her in an odd way. "I don't. …It's hard to explain."

"…I see."

They remained quiet for the rest of the way.

The bistro was a 2-story standalone building lit by a warm fluorescent glow. Its tables were laid across the first floor like more of a pub than a French restaurant. Then again, it was the first time Hermione had ever been to a bistro, muggle or otherwise. While she had no basis to which she could compare the bistro to, she decided that she liked the quiet of the place already.

Fleur led Hermione, still by the hand, to a table just ways away from the counter and bar stools. She familiarly greeted the waiter who came to their table.

Hermione noted that he refused to look away from Fleur even when he was handing them the menus. Fleur's veela charm was working. Hermione, who wasn't affected, had almost forgotten that fact about the older woman.

"I'll take the usual," Fleur said. She didn't even open the menu. "What would you like, Hermione?"

"Ah… The beef Wellington, mid-rare."

"So that would be two beef Wellingtons, mid-rare, one plate of frites, and one chocolate mousse. Any wine preference, ladies?"

'_Bloody hell, she could eat'_, Hermione thought, not thinking about wine or the fact that they had ordered the same main course dish.

"Do you have any, Hermione?" Fleur turned to her, all chipper-like.

"No. …I don't know much about wine."

Fleur turned to the waiter, decisive. "One '79 Merlot, then."

"I'll be back with your orders." The waiter stepped away meekly, as if not wanting to leave.

"It's a lovely place," Hermione said to Fleur, happy that the blonde did not disappoint.

"I'm glad." Fleur smiled. "This place in my favorite."

Hermione saw that coming. "Do you miss France?"

"Yes," she admitted. "But it is little gems like this in England that keeps me happy."

Their orders arrived and neither of them hesitated to glut happily on their meals. Hermione sipped her wine occasionally, glad that her parents taught her how to drink them despite their opinion of wine, coffee, and other "teeth-staining substances". The bistro remained empty save for waiters passing by (to catch a glimpse of Fleur, no doubt) and chefs popping out of the kitchen to check up on things.

"Let's share," urged Fleur, pushing her plate of chocolate mousse between them.

"No, I shouldn't."

"Do you not like sweets?"

"I do. It's just… It's yours." Hermione gulped. If Fleur was doing an imitation of Molly Weasley, someone really must give her an Oscar.

"I insist!" Fleur said, insistent. "And you've become so thin! You really must eat more."

"Well, I…"

Hermione paused at the spoonful of chocolate mousse in front of her. It arrived quickly as if predestined and hovered in front of her as if the lump of creamy mousse was saying "Eat me".

It didn't seem to Hermione that Fleur, who was holding the spoon by the handle, was ever going to give up.

Hermione took a meek bite out of the mousse and withdrew, licking the remaining mousse from her lips.

And then it dawned on her like a delayed Tube train: Far too late. Hermione blinked, not sure whether to feel flattered or incredulous.

Unsure, she said: "…Are you flirting with me?"

Fleur nodded guiltily, like a child caught during a misdeed. "There is no fooling you, hm? Yes, I am flirting."

Hermione opened her mouth, only to have her lips closed by a single slender finger of the blonde.

"And before you ask, which you will… Yes, I'm attracted to you. Deeply so. Yes, this isn't a simple dinner. I was hoping I could charm you off your feet, as they say."

"Oh."

Fleur's eyebrows began to knot worriedly. "Are you offended? The English are…prudish… about some things."

"No, not that!" Hermione rang. "It's just… I never knew you were a lesbian."

"Bah. I was never sure. Not until Bill. He's a good man. I just can't bring myself to love him enough."

Fleur sighed into her cupped hands in a contemplative pause.

"I have not been entirely honest, Hermione. He may have cheated on me, but I was the one who drove him to it. I couldn't love him the way he wanted me to and he was a caring enough man to notice. _Pathétique_, _non_?"

Hermione reached over the table to one of Fleur's clenched hands. She felt odd doing it, comforting to the woman who had just confessed her attraction for her. Hermione wondered if the blonde was drunk, then wondered if they both were. They ate enough so that they shouldn't be, but they did just go through a bottle between the two of them. "No, Fleur. That's just bollocks! You can't help being the way you are. It's _not_ your fault. It just didn't work out between the two of you."

_Just like how it didn't work out for her and Ron_, she added in her mind. _It just wasn't supposed to._

Fleur paused before breaking into a soft laugh. "Funny. You always seemed proper. Not prone to swearing at all."

"You can't get through a war without cussing once or twice," Hermione shrugged at the teasing. The trio used to swear enough to fuel a bar brawl in their private company. She then sprang at the realization that she should clear things up. "But I'm not interested in you. Not in that way, I mean! I hope I haven't given any false hopes or anything… I…

"…Oh fuck, I sound awkward," she concluded, slumping into her chair.

Fleur smiled gently. "Not at all. I've put you in an odd spot."

They paid for their meals. That is, Fleur insisted on taking care of the tab herself as an apology for any negative feelings she may have caused, which only caused Hermione to feel both awkward and guilty. But she was too dazed at the sudden revelation to be forceful.

This, Hermione realized after being led out of the bistro by Fleur, was going to cost her the night's sleep.

They stood stiffly in an alley near the bistro. It was their last moment together that night before they Apparate to their separate ways. Hermione felt that she should say something, just for the sake of being civil, but could only shift awkwardly from side to side.

"Hermione," Fleur urged softly.

The blonde's voice was making her head spin. Had it done that to her before? Why hasn't she noticed this until now?

"Hermione," Fleur said again, firmly this time. A pair of slender hands went to Hermione's face, cupped it, and brought it to face her own.

Then their lips met softly, yet firmly, for a few chaste seconds, as if something greater than themselves had demanded it. The raw sincerity of the kiss engulfed Hermione despite herself. And Hermione Granger, in compliance to that greater will, did nothing to break or prevent it.

Fleur smelled sweet of the versatile Merlot. The way Hermione's chin was forced to remain up to reach Fleur's made her feel protected. The closeness was such an assault to Hermione's senses, she was not sure if if she was breathing through it all.

"I know you said you're not interested in me," said Fleur, drawing her lips back. "But I'm very interested in you. I have been for a long time. I will not give up."

Now that she was free from Fleur's lips, Hermione could easily hex the older woman where she stood. She felt like she should be doing just that. She should be angry. She had a right to. Flattering as the kiss was, her primal core screamed that she was being manipulated.

But she felt swooned. She wasn't sure if she should be. This inward confusion petrified her and the Kiss Thief was free to escape in a puff of Apparated smoke.

Alone, Hermione was free to wonder if the recent development constituted as "something more sinister". She wasn't sure how she should go about it. Then again, she wasn't sure about a lot of things at that moment. Despite her better judgment, she wanted more then. More of Fleur's gentle kiss. More of Fleur's everything.

The brunette stood in the dank alley grimly, her mind futilely trying to rationalize love.

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I wonder how many people reading this fic are familiar with Craig Ferguson and his constant "luring in the homeless with chicken" routine. The man needs more fans out there.


	3. A Bureaucrat

Uni starts tomorrow and I have afternoon classes. I'm scared shitless. The IT department hasn't blocked /u/ just yet, which is great.

The majority of this was worked on whenever my roommate was away, even if just for a second, so I can't help but feel like I'm rushing. It's also a bit choppy at parts. I'll work on it later. Plot comes first.

Speaking of plots, I fear I'm going to be hated for the plot development. Ah well.

And, please, no pasta-choking. I don't want any of my readers to die a sad, accidental death while misreading portions of my work.

I don't know if Hermione speaks French. Emma Watson does, I think. But since I've previously established her as such, I'm going to stick with it.

* * *

**Charmed**

**Chapter 3**

With all the slave-driving, bureaucracy at least made ways for the weekends. Papers were pushed aside and delayed till the next work day and all is well with the world.

It was Saturday, the Ministry's official "off-day". She loved to sleep in on Saturdays and pretend that weekday was eons away. Anything other than sleep was a variation of lazing about. That was how she typically spent her weekends, being happily delusional.

But last night Fleur Delacour happened and Hermione's routine is thus disrupted.

There was no sleeping, for one. It was not as if she had not tried. Instead of the rest she sought, she had gotten nothing but unwilling sexual fantasies to which she and Fleur were the stars.

All of it went on with her unconscious consent.

She thought about relieving herself, but felt too guilty to take that grand idea any farther.

A non-sexual distraction was the way to go, she decided. She needed to think.

She had been hovering over her revised notes of The Tales of Beedle the Bard since then, keeping the lewd fantasies at bay. She sipped her coffee over the notes contemplatively, thoughts about the dinner keeping her unwillingly distracted. Needless to say, she had sobered up considerably.

Hermione wished she knew French. The trips she had taken with family in her much younger days did not give way to such convenience since her genius seemed to only extend to magical matters. Things are often lost in translation, after all. Perhaps Fleur's proclamation was one of such nuances that could easily be ratified by being on the same page.

But that kiss. She did not hate it. They were, for a moment, on the same page. And the French were not so different. They were only just a body of water away, geographically speaking.

But things like "liking women" do not just escape detection. At least, in Hermione's mind, it shouldn't. It is such a life-changing matter that it can't just _slip by_. There was no way she was a lesbian and did not notice it. She was hardly insightful about herself, but there was no way she could be that thick.

And there was Ron. While she's not quite sure what she was feeling for Fleur was the same as what she felt for Ron, it was nevertheless strong. And she definitely felt something for Ron before he called it all off. It was just that whatever she felt for him just turned into pure seething rage afterwards.

Hermione wondered if what she was feeling for Fleur now was just a strange form of friendship. It would simplify things tremendously. But they weren't necessarily friends to begin with, were they? And Fleur had made her intentions quite clear. And one does not simply kiss another like that casually. Not even the French, with their famed amorous nature. Was Fleur just being an exception to normal human beings then?

The hilarious thought of Fleur being a space monster distracted her for one wondrous moment.

But Fleur was one-quarter veela, she realized. A part of the older woman, no matter how small, wasn't exactly human. Hermione wasn't affected by Fleur's veela charm, or at least she was sure she wasn't. But even if she was affected, Fleur was the one who had approached her, who had made the first move. If she was caught up in it like most men were, wouldn't she be the one to make the first move?

She did not hate the kiss, but to rashly say that she liked it was like prodding a shaky floodgate. It was something sensible parents warn their children against. "Don't fool with a floodgate. Don't play near a cliff. And **don't **be a lesbian."

But it felt good, so does it matter? Hermione missed feeling good.

Her gut screamed "No". Then again, it was beyond time for breakfast. Looking blankly at the ancient rune script laid out before her, now seemingly unintelligible, she decided that her exhausted self could use a change of pace. And breakfast. Definitely breakfast.

* * *

It was late when she exited her place. She had not noticed how late it was. Something inside her head was also giving her a stiff two-fingered salute, as her head was throbbing horribly.

She rushed past the muggle bakery, fighting pass the whirls of mouthwatering aroma. All the while her stomach gnawed on her painfully. There was nothing left in her refrigerator that she could have used to sate herself short of a stick of butter. And she wasn't going to munch on hard butter. She wasn't quite desperate enough.

But as she made for escape, she was met with nothing but rows and rows of townhouses. Then, for a brief second, she considered heading back and eating that butter like the last piece of meat to ever grace the earth. But she told herself no and trudged on.

She felt cowardly, shying away from any place she knew Fleur would be. But she wasn't ready to face the older woman just yet. She was sure that she has enough muggle money to last a while, so she also planned to avoid Gringrotts, just in case.

Several blocks away from the bakery, Hermione was sure she was safe. Her pace slowed as she continued past the rows of homes. Ways away from the bakery, she was sure that there would not be any chanced encounters as she hunted down breakfast.

What Hermione wasn't counting on was Fleur seeking her out.

"_Salut_," came a soft voice behind her, just when she thought she smelled a strong scent of fresh lavender and was looking around for the source.

"Merlin's beard!" Hermione yelped. "Don't you have work?"

Fleur looked as lovely as ever, Hermione thought. Then she gave herself an inward kick to the shins.

"Did I not tell you? I'm a private contractor. I have my own schedule." Fleur took a careful look at Hermione before handing her a sizable bouquet of lavender she produced from behind her. "Have you not slept?"

"And whose fault do you think that is?" Hermione grumbled, taking the lavender bouquet gingerly as she mumbled an embarrassed 'thank you'. Something inside her leapt at the heavenly smell as she drew the bundle closer to her nose. She was sure that lavender has meaning as a flower, but wasn't sure what that meaning was. At any rate, she promised herself to, as the muggles say, Google it.

Something flashed across Fleur's face that, if Hermione had to guess, was akin to genuine happiness. "You spent the whole night thinking about me? I'm flattered."

Fleur's happy grin caused Hermione to flush red. The dainty lavender bouquet in Hermione's hands was raised before her face in a pathetic attempt at self-defense. Feeling braver behind the ribboned bundle, she countered: "Never mind that! Why are you stalking me?"

"I'm merely following my routine, Hermione. Walks are good for the body." Fleur shook her head.

"And the lavender."

"I **am** a witch, Hermione. But why are you being like this? What's wrong? …Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" Fleur was being perfectly sweet, Hermione had to admit. "It's just… yesterday was… I don't know how to feel about it. It's too sudden."

The blonde closed in gently. "Just go with what your heart is telling you."

Hearing that, Hermione felt like being particularly disagreeable. It was such a gag-worthy cliché, and a white-washed one at that. "You're only saying that because you want to shag."

"Yes," agreed Fleur, straight-faced. "And so much more. And you do not know how long I have been waiting."

Hermione toughened herself and faced the towering blonde. "Oh? And just how long would that be?"

"Ever since the Triwizard Tournament," answered Fleur with her particular brand of honesty.

"Since-" She halted, astonished. _9 fucking years_, thought Hermione._ It's a surprise she hasn't bloody raped me by now._

"But you hardly looked at me," protested the confused Hermione. Fleur had been seen with Harry and Ron, but not her. Never her. Not to mention that back then Hermione was simply loathing Fleur's existence from a distance, unsure if the older girl even acknowledged her as something beyond "Harry Potter's friend". If Fleur had liked her ever since then, nothing ever gave it away.

Or Fleur was simply saying it just to reel her in. Hermione, realizing the grim possibility, shook herself awake and readied herself.

Fleur turned away, a guilt-filled look splayed across her face. "You were just so beautiful that I couldn't bear to. I tried distracting myself with others, but …you! You were always on my mind."

"…Would this be before or after the Yule Ball?" Hermione choked down her painfully-thumping heart. She wanted to be sure. If she was going to let herself be swooned by Fleur's antics, she had to be sure.

"Before. The Yule Ball? I was so jealous of Victor then. I wanted to hex him dead."

Hermione blinked. A temperamental Fleur was not something she was familiar with. "Just… wow. You're not one for subtlety, are you?"

"Neither are you."

Hermione huffed defensively. "I'm just direct."

"Ha. And so am I. Hence the reason why I'm here."

Hermione glared. "To stalk me?"

"To convince you to give us a chance."

Hermione hated how convincing Fleur was being. She wavered despite herself, shuddering at Fleur's sweet words. To take up on Fleur's proposal meant abandoning a part of herself that she thought she knew. The thought of that alone caused her to break in cold sweat.

"I don't see how it can work out," she managed despite her hesitation. "And I don't know the first thing about dating a woman."

Hermione couldn't help but groan at how bad the phrase sounded once she had spoken them. It made her sound like she was interested. It was not that she wasn't interested, but she didn't want to sound interested. She had just created a hole in her own façade.

_My mouth will be the end of me,_ she thought dejectedly.

And sure enough, Fleur was convinced that Hermione needed a little push. "Let me show you that it will. One day at a time. Just think of it as having a very close friend."

Hermione winced. "I don't know about you, but I don't plan to fuck my friends."

"Or they're just not as open about it as I am."

The prospect of Harry or Ginny or Nevile ever wanting her in that way irked her. Her face scrunched up accordingly.

"Hermione." Fleur grabbed her shoulders gently. "You might not realize this, but you are a very attractive woman."

"So it's just about looks, then?"

"No." Fleur shook her head. "Beauty is easy to find. But I don't think I'll ever find someone out there as brave and intelligent and persistent as you."

"'Persistent' would be your quality, not mine." Hermione wondered why was it that Fleur had not ran away and considered herself rejected by now. Anyone else certainly would have. Considering the scope of this particular situation, Fleur was indeed persistent.

"I'm not the one who translated The Tales of Beedle the Bard from ancient runes," Fleur chuckled.

"I – T-That because it was interesting," sputtered Hermione defensively.

"And it was. I enjoyed it."

"You read it," said Hermione, suspiciously.

Fleur smiled proudly. "I have a copy of the first edition, hard leather cover."

"...Stalker."

Fleur brushed aside the accusation. "I truly enjoy the works you do, Hermione. Truly."

Hermione felt herself losing her grip, on the verge of giving in.

"I don't know what you expect of me, Fleur," Hermione said in a sudden wave of desperation, desperately savaging herself. "I'm not nice. I hurt people's feelings. I'm frigid in bed. I'm distant. I don't get along with people easily."

"I expect you to be you."

_Oh, hell_, thought Hermione. It was yet another cheesy line, yet her heart leapt into a vigorous jig at it.

_Why? Why am I falling for her? _She wondered helplessly._ I'm not even gay!_

"Fleur, you can't do this do me! I need more time!" Hermione wasn't sure if she was screaming at this point. She just wanted to be firm.

Fleur, at any rate, seemed stunned. Her expression darkened into a sad crumpling of forced smiles.

"…Of course. You are right."

As Fleur whipped out her ward and disappeared into Apparated smoke, she smiled sadly. During that single moment, Hermione wanted nothing more than to run up to Fleur and comfort her.

* * *

The virtually untouched laptop she had gotten from her parents for graduation proved itself useful. She fired up her web browser the first moment she arrived home.

_Lavender – Devotion_, said a site.

Of course. Given its meaning, it made perfect sense that Fleur would choose to give her lavenders. 9 years' worth of pining for someone was devotion of an unconventional sort.

9 years ago, Hermione was just a child. A dependable child who was constantly up to great exploits with her friends, but a child nonetheless. 9 years ago, Fleur was a Year 7 student and a Triwizard champion. She was sturdy and capable and brutally honest and simply beautiful.

Looking at the bouquet as it lay bundled on her work table, Hermione felt gut-wrenchingly horrible. It was not due to hunger, she was sure. She had gotten some croissant on her way back. Her constant desk-side nibbling kept her stomach content. The paper bag full of croissants, the lavenders, they all reminded her of Fleur and, specifically, what she had done to the older woman.

The memory of that daunting smile still made her heart ache.

She wondered if the flower choice was deliberate. Probably. It was clear to Hermione that Fleur was thoughtful like that.

She winced as another wave of guilt slammed her in the face.

_Why me?_ thought Hermione. Fleur definitely could afford to spend her time courting someone else more compliant and not a straight woman like her. The older woman, she felt, was doing herself a great injustice.

But was Hermione straight? Given her varied reactions during the morning encounter, she wasn't so sure anymore. She admitted to being interested in a romantic relationship with Fleur, but that was that. So does that mean that she was bisexual? With Fleur, she could most certainly find out. But that would be horrible of her and she decided vehemently against it. If she was ever going to date Fleur, it wouldn't be because she felt a little bi-curious. Fleur didn't deserve that.

It was not the first time Hermione had ever rejected someone. Except Fleur, they were all men. They were mostly wizards, maybe a splotch of muggles here and there. She had never felt guilty rejecting any of their advances. Most of them were not bad-looking. She wasn't so sure how sober each of them was at the time, however.

Hermione was feeling desperate. Her quill hovered lightly over a crisp piece of muggle lined paper, awaiting instructions. Her brown locks glowered in a strange shade of white-blue under the shapeless fire. With her mind frazzled, the fire refused to take the generic ball shape.

She thought of owling Ginny, and felt guilty as she did. Where can she even begin? What can she even begin to say? "Hi, Ginny. After dropping off the face of the earth, I'm chuffed to announce that I've found someone who treats me much better than Ron ever had. She's a woman though, so I'm not sure what to do. Also, it's Fleur Delacour."

But she there was no way she could even begin to, even if they were still good friends. It was Fleur "Phlegm" Delacour. The older woman was practically Ginny's mortal foe.

The prospect of the two fighting to the death was gruesome, yet highly amusing.

Against the idea as she was, she had no choice. There was simply no one else she could turn to. She opened a can of cat food and laid it on the windowsill.

"Dear Ginny," she began. The quill began writing all the while. "I'm not sure what our relationship is now, but I need your advice. I have no one else I can turn to. Yes, you may show this to Harry as you see fit. I miss you two. Well, Ron too, but you know how things are.

"And before you begin thinking that I've gotten knocked up or something, no, I most certainly have not. You see, for the last two days, someone has been courting me. Sounds great, right? Wrong. It's horribly complicated."

Hermione paused to sip on her coffee and look out the window. It was nearing evening. The sky was both ominous purple and lively orange. The canned food remained untouched.

"Simply put, I'm being courted by a woman. Yes, you know her. No, you wouldn't like her. She is not a bad person. Just tends to rub people the wrong way. Otherwise, she's horribly sweet."

_Great_, Hermione thought. _Now I'm __**defending**__ her. Might as well tell Ginny not to chew her head off while I'm at it._

"You're probably thinking 'But you're not a lesbian, Hermione'. Well, that's the thing. I'm not sure if I am. I'm attracted to her, but I don't know if I should go for it. What if it doesn't work out and I end up hurting her? I'm not sure how accepting the Wizarding world is of …_this_. It's the kind of relationship that would not have anyone's blessing.

"And that's about it for my predicament. Expecting your reply, Herm."

Hermione waved her quill into its previous state of lifelessness. Seeing that the can on the windowsill is still full, she called "Crookshanks! Dinner!"

And the orange cat sauntered in, as if it was waiting for the call all this time. She was lucky to have found it after the War, safe and sound. It gobbled the contents of the can faster than Hermione could manage to wave her letter into an envelope. Once the can was licked clean, it stretched spryly across the table as Hermione sealed the gaping envelope with wax.

"Deliver this to Ginny, would you?"

Crookshanks was gone with the letter before she could fully open her front door. She watched her orange pet disappear into the roads of London, heart full of hope.

* * *

Fleur Delacour: Making straight women wet since 2000.


	4. Ginny and Harry

So Crookshanks is a he. My bad.

Belated news: OMG, Emma Watson's new haircut. –Squeal-

Apologies for the lateness. University life is kicking my ass a hundred different ways. And while I've had friends before, it's entirely different to have friends who I see all the time despite wanting to be alone. The worse part about that? **They know where I live**. Also, cellphones. That said, I barely have a quiet moment to myself.

While it's great in many ways, it makes me want to pull a Dickenson.

* * *

Charmed

Chapter 4

It was evening, the very same evening still. Fleur sat in front of her desk, her back to an open window. The cool April air had crept into every nook and cranny of her apartment. Under normal circumstances she would have closed the window or at least threw on a jacket, with nostalgia for southern France and its manageable climate in mind. That night she had not the heart to do either. She only cursed at the wind: "Kill me. I don't care". But that was clearly a lie. At that precise moment, in her own loneliness, she wanted nothing more than someone to keep her warm. And at that moment, she had no one else in mind for that purpose except Hermione.

She had not forgotten about the afternoon before. Slumped over a parchment, she ran her fine fingers along her characteristically Veela hair with nothing short of dejection. "Fat chance." she told herself firmly and all too calmly.

The parchment was spread over her desktop and held flat by a stream of silver that emitted from her ward. It read:

"Dearest Gabrielle,"

"I'm writing this in English, since Mother has told me that you don't care much for it. Don't think of it as torture While you don't care much for English, I know you care very much about my recent development. And English isn't so bad. Crude, but not so bad. This will be a good way for you to learn English as any.

It hurts so much right now I don't even know where to begin. Let's just establish that I've gotten ahead of myself. I had jumped to the conclusion that she would accept me with open arms. Naturally, I was shot down. She probably doesn't think the best of me to begin with. And she's straight! It's stupid of me, to fall for a straight girl. But your sister has been stupid for a long time.

You say you have never met her, but I can assure you that you have. She was there with Harry and Ron during the Triwizard Tournament, being her silently charming self. Those three were the best of friends. Something changed between her and Ron, I think. That stupid boy. Stupid for ever thinking of leaving such an amazing girl.

She says she needed more time. I suppose that's fair enough. But she didn't even give me a chance. No, that's not true either. She did. The date. She gave me a chance and I rushed her. She took everything I forced onto her till it confused her. It's foolish of me to ever fall for a straight girl. Was I too forward? Too pushy? Considering her personality, I thought that she would appreciate the gesture. It seems clear now that I was wrong. Rational as she is, she is still a woman. We both are. That's why it can only get harder."

Fluer took a calming breath, settling her turbulent emotions. She had always been great at handling rejections, rare as they may be. But not now, not when it comes to Hermione Granger. It was quite a rut she had gotten herself into, a rut which she has no one to blame for it but herself.

It had been 9 years since the Triwizard Tournament. 9 years of her subconscious mind incessantly nagging her about one Hermione Granger. Back when Fleur first realized her feeling for the girl, she felt disgusted with herself for ever liking _a child_. A _**child**_, her 18 year old self thought angrily. She could blink at anyone and they would swoon but she had to fall for a _**child**_, of all people. And straight, for all she knew then. The realization that Fleur could never have the girl killed her then. Not to mention that, according to a little bird, the brunette was not too taken with Fleur. "'Constantly glaring', to be exact," said a chatty Beauxbatons girl, someone Fleur knew to be a reliable gossip hub. "Like she's hexing a hole into your skull."

But when Fleur saw the girl giving her female friends a peculiar sort of glance during the Yule Ball, she was sure she had a chance. But Hermione was far too young then, so Fleur snuffed the thought of ever approaching the younger girl. In her mind, there were many things wrong with the image of her and Hermione together.

Fleur jumped at that memory. Could it be that Hermione doesn't even know that she isn't as straight as she thinks? Fleur dismissed the thought. No. Hermione was bright, so prodigiously bright that the confines of the muggle world could not contain her. It was impossible that she would not know such a thing about herself. Yet her confusion was that of someone who just never gave it a thought, not someone who was holding herself back. Fleur was unsure of how to feel about that.

Fleur felt optimism closing in on her and trampled it while it was young. She rode a sudden wave of distraction and decided to add to the parchment:

"Enough about me. How are you? I hope Mother isn't trying to fit you into my old robes again. They would always drape a little on you. You'd think that having Father's height would be a good thing all around, but I fear it's not helping you much in terms of hand-me-downs. As always, write soon, but not too soon. "

Fleur signed it with a pointed flick of her wand. It was too late into the night to send to Gabrielle. If her sister had gotten a letter at this time of night, she would spend the whole night replying. Fleur sighed. She would have to make do with tomorrow.

Tomorrow. She would go to work tomorrow, she thought. For the moment, she felt like she needed to be kept impossibly preoccupied.

* * *

On that same night, Ginny appeared in Hermione's house with a puff of tossed green soot. Crookshanks hopped from her grasp and settled himself in a cozy corner in the kitchen, hiding from the impending noise.

When Ginevra Molly Potter arrived in Hermione's fireplace, the brunette had no doubt that she was going to be railed. The redhead's Quidditch boots thudded menacingly against the creaky wooden floor, scaring the ashes right out of the thick soles. Her scuffed leather armguard creaked as she brushed aside a stray lock of her fiery hair.

Hermione gulped, feeling scared despite herself. Ginny, who was much more athletic than she ever was, could easily crumple her like a dead leaf if she ever decided to. Thank Merlin for magic.

Hermione gulped. She did not like Ginny's frown. "Hi, Ginny. How's Harry?"

Ginny scowled. She wasn't shrilling. Not yet. That was all Hermione could ask for.

"Oh, don't 'Hi, Ginny' me," said the redhead.

Hermione foresaw the hostility, but was not expecting Ginny to be donning her dark green and gold battle gear, complete with leather guards. The only thing missing was her broom. She blinked at Ginny deftly. "Why are you in your game uniform?"

"I was in the middle of practice. Now stop asking stupid questions and stalling the inevitable, Hermione." Ginny then produced the very same letter Hermione had sent, minus the envelope, and began to slap Hermione's arm with the now-wrinkled paper. "Who the bloody hell is this _cow_?"

"It's funny that you should call her a cow, really," said Hermione, remembering all the disparaging names the redhead had for the older woman. _Fond adolescent memories_, she reminisced sarcastically.

"So it's someone I know?"

"Yes," said Hermione, unsure of how much longer she could keep calm. Her heart felt like it would jump out her throat long before Ginny could rip it off.

"But I don't like this person," said Ginny slowly, as if tasting her words.

"Very much so," Hermione admitted before adding hopefully. "But you might be OK with her now. You know, after the War and everything."

"This will not end well, you know?" The redhead warned. She did not like where all of this was heading. Hermione, who guessed that the younger girl was jumping to all the _right_ conclusions, did not like where this was heading either.

In an attempt to reinforce her now spaghetti-like spine, Hermione said: "That's not for you to decide."

Ginny, who had been pacing up and down the apartment, whipped her head towards Hermione and unleashed a bout of fiery Weasley anger.

"Yes, it bloody hell **is**! I get to decide for myself whether I should hex this cow to bits! Mind, you dropped off the face of the earth. You never called, you never owled."

And there was no better response to screaming than screaming right back. "I work at the Ministry, you know. I'm not that hard to find. **My **_**arse**_** is practically glued to the bleeding desk!**"

"We were respecting your privacy!"

"Bugger my privacy! It's like you lot don't even give a bleeding fuck!" In Hermione's defense, she was pushing for "firm and reasonable". It was safe to say that she had missed the mark by a light-year.

"I don't have to take this from you!" Ginny, tired of the screaming match, reached for her armguard. From the worn leathery mess she produced her wand and aimed it at Hermione.

Hermione non-verbally deflected the spell with a blot of _Protego_ and watched it hit a bare wall of the room. In a wave of condescension, she said "Bat-boogey hex? Shame on you."

She summoned her wand, deflected another wave of the hex, and waved the wand towards Ginny's general direction. "_Silencio_."

Ginny, silenced, found herself casting frantic waves of hit-or-miss non-verbal spells. A year of peacetime had made her lax with her offensive spell casting. Since her spells either missed Hermione or were deflected, she decided to just go old-school and ram Hermione in the gut with her shoulder and wrangled the wand out of Hermione's hand. Ginny held the brunette's arms back with brute force and aimed a point-blank _Silencio_ at her.

Just as Ginny was going for a ground-and-pound, Hermione imagined that it was Fleur who was mounting her. It scared her that, even in face of imminent fiery-haired danger, she didn't mind that one bit.

A voice rang from the doorway, busting her free from her troubled fantasy: "What the f – _Levicopus!_"

Harry Potter didn't so much as walk into the apartment as Apparating in a rush and half-kicking, half-_Alohomora_-ing his way in. But even in the midst of shock at seeing his wife and his friend going at each other, he held the mid-air ankle-dangling act firm.

Harry shut the door behind him with a free hand, his wand still raised at the two. "I'll let you two go now. Promise that you two won't go at each other."

Ginny rolled her eyes and shrugged an grudging "Yes". Hermione was just a bit less reluctant to agree, but being dangled upside-down was all the persuasion she needed.

Ginny hopped to her feet as soon as they were earthbound and de-silenced. "Late much, Harry? I know you wanted to take the long way around, but really." Sitting up, Hermione felt that Harry came just in time but decided to just keep quiet.

"…Two grown women." Harry was exasperated. "Honestly, Ginny. And I wanted to say 'Hi' to a friend in the neighborhood. Is that really so wrong? Wasn't like I stopped for tea or anything."

"Might as well 'ave!" grumbled Ginny. "And I'm sorry if I can't warm up to that cow, but I just can't. Not after Bill…"

This perked Hermione's interest. _Could it be?_

Harry cleared his throat, deciding to pursue a lighter subject. "You really need work on your security, Hermione." He knocked on the front door before heading to Hermione and offering a hand. "I can get you the counter-spell later. It's one of those hush-hush Auror secret ones. Works like a charm. And Ginny hasn't been doing well. The upcoming match's getting to her."

Hermione was in a less-than-sympathetic mood. "Funny. I just thought that getting chased by all those Death Eaters would have given her steel balls or something."

"I wish! There's this beater who I'm not even 100% sure is a _**broad**_. I'm talking hairy! And burly as fuck! And she announced that I'm her competition or something. What if she tries to pull a blatching on me? I'd die from the size of her!"

"She wouldn't dare. And stop sounding like Ron."

Then they paused, looking awkwardly at Hermione. The forbidden name had slipped from The Boy Who Lived's tongue as easily as committing a faux-pas. A chilly silence passed between them before Harry began again. "…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

"…I – It's fine. I don't really think about him much anymore."

"Well, he's a wankstain for leaving you anyways. I know he's my brother, but I'm tired of playing nice. Everyone is. Even Mum's bloody pissed at him still."

Hermione turned to Harry, who nodded contemplatively in agreement. "I don't talk to him much about it. It gets awkward and he gets defensive."

"Typical Ron," added Ginny. "But enough about him. So who's this cow?"

Harry seemed confused. "'Cow'?"

Ginny shoved Hermione's letter into Harry's hand, crumpling it even further. He did his best to smooth it out before peering at the contents.

"So, who is it?" asked Harry finally. An innocent, curious smile emerged. How Hermione wanted to club him over with it.

Hermione groaned. "If only I can tell you without Ginny hexing her to bits, really."

"Now, I'd do it if she has it coming," protested Ginny.

Harry quirked the edge of his lips nervously. "That bad?"

"Potentially."

"You must really like her, to risk all this."

"I haven't risked anything yet."

"Well, we've never really talked about… this. So you don't really know our stance regarding this. It's pretty risky, if you ask me."

"I know that Ginny doesn't mind," quipped Hermione. "To quote her exact words: 'I guess I don't mind if someone I know is gay. Why would I?'"

"No spilling girl-talk to my husband, please. And the issue is not whether you've turned gay. It's _who_ you've been turned gay by."

Hermione rolled her eyes. _Turned gay._ For all she knew, it has always been there. It was incredulous for Ginny to ever suggest such a thing. And Fleur isn't shady at all. She retorted: "I'm not really the type to date the shady sort, am I?"

"First time for everything, love," Ginny grinned. "So who is it? More importantly, how are you sure that this cow isn't just trying to get into your pants?"

"That's practically suicide," Harry argued jokingly. "At any rate, does it matter? You're free to like whoever, 'Mione."

Hermione fidgeted. "You might have other reasons to not like her though."

The Boy Who Lived shrugged. "We'll deal with that once that comes. For now, it's still a bit hasty. Let's wait it out," Harry gave her a pat. "In fact, how about we all take a walk around the neighborhood?"

Hermione turned to the redhead, who gave her a content grin. "What? I'm not in any hurry to go back or anything. A walk will do you some good, anyhow."

'_Exercise!'_ rang Fleur's confident voice that emerged from the depths of Hermione's memories. _'We witches and wizards never get enough of it.'_

Hermione gritted her teeth, annoyed. Every little thing seems to remind her of Fleur. It made her felt even guiltier for shooting the older woman down. She felt like saying sorry to Fleur and giving in to all the unspoken promises of love and care. Being rational was doing her no good, so raising a white flag was starting to sound good.

But Ginny would inevitably throw a fit about it regardless of them being back on speaking term. Ginny, while very sensible most of the time, did not seem like she would be sensible regarding this. She, like most members of the Weasley family, took family very seriously. And Bill's divorce was, Hermione guessed, a sore subject for the younger woman.

"You alright?"

Hermione forced a smile. "I'm fine. Let's just go for that walk. And no more of that 'Who's the woman' talk, you hear?"

Ginny smiled. "Fine. Just let me change for a bit before we go."

* * *

"I've been thinking."

Ginny, stripped of her leather Quidditch battle gear, was in a talkative mood. It was an excitement from seeing an old friend, which was by all means infectious. The three of them walked down a long stretch of apartments and townhouses. The time was 12:51 AM.

"Maybe we grew up too fast. Maybe the War screwed us up somehow."

"That's a pretty odd thing to be thinking about."

"That's what Harry said. But isn't it true? Other people our age are up to something more carefree. They're not trying to change the world like you and Harry."

Hermione blushed. "I'm hardly changing anything. It's just a desk job."

"But with the Ministry. Not many people want to be involved with the Ministry, even nowadays. It's the wartime stigma. That fuddy-duddy Cornelius Fudge, then the Thicknesse-Voldemort takeover. It's bloody ballsy, you know."

Hermione chuckled. "Speak for yourself. You're the one clobbering people left, right, center."

"Sweetie." Ginny rolled her eyes. "It's _Quidditch_. It's an occupational hazard."

"And if I didn't become an Auror, I'd be out there getting my arse kicked by my own fiancée," quipped Harry.

Hermione looked as if she had just been kicked by a horse. "You two are engaged?"

"Since February," nodded Harry happily.

Ginny hugged her fiance's arm playfully. "Sometimes I think he's happier about it than I am."

"Congratulations!"

Ginny broke into a grin. "Thanks. We thought about telling you as soon as possible…"

"…But we couldn't find the right time to just hold you down and have a talk."

"You idiots! These kinds of things are important!"

"You say that, but we know how stubborn you can be."

Harry nodded. "Speaking of stubborn… So you like this woman, then?"

Hermione winced. So they were back to the same topic. No one can blame the couple for not having a one-track mind, surely. "Not you too!"

"Ah."

The three turned to the source of the new voice in unison. A tall, thickly-coated figure with long, silvery-blonde hair was approaching them from a distance. A wartime habit compelled them to reach for their wands.

But it was just Fleur Delacour. Except that it wasn't "just Fleur Delacour" to Hermione. The brunette's heart throbbed at the sight of the older woman. Gradually, then madly.

_It's like she's everywhere!_ Came Hermione's inward scream.

"Good to see you again. And so soon," began Harry. Ginny was far too annoyed at the sudden appearance to greet the older woman. Hermione was just simply boggled.

"Harry." She leaned closed to The Boy Who Lived's face and gave him a peck on the cheek. "To think that you have just visited me. Ginny. And…" A light blush crept across the older blonde's flawless cheeks. "_Salut_, Hermione."

Hermione, cowering behind the couple and effectively hiding her own rose-colored cheeks, managed a nod.

But it was clear that Ginny and Harry had not picked up on Hermione's sudden bout of shyness. If they had, Harry would not have said: "We're talking a walk around the neighborhood. Care to join?"

Fleur glanced at the cowering brunette. _No, she's no longer a child_, the woman decided. It was late, but she had a feeling that she would still be restless if she decided to go back to her place now. She had nothing else she would like to add to Gabrielle's letter. And Hermione was there. Even if it was doomed to be a moment spent in awkward silence between her and the younger brunette, Fleur would still liked to be there.

"Sure," said the quarter-veela, unsuspecting of the things to come.


	5. Hands

I'm running a poll on whether or not to change this fic's title in my profile. Check it out.

* * *

**Charmed**

**Chapter 5**

For some reason unbeknownst to Hermione, their eventual destination was at a quirky establishment to which Hermione was familiar. It was a pub, and by no means a muggle one, that was filled with a simple sense of drunken coziness. Hermione went there every so often to work on The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Hermione wondered if it was due to the English in her, but work went on much more smoothly for her with a frothy mug of muggle Guinness stout in her belly.

The reaction from behind the counter was different this time around. The reserved Poole leapt at the sight of Ginny. Hermione had always had the bartender pegged as a Quidditch fan, though she never cared enough about the sport to ask which team he rooted for.

'_Well, I know now,' _she thought.

His reaction to Harry and Fleur was no less energetic. "Harry Potter… _The_ Harry Potter," the beaded man gaped to himself. "…And Fleur Delacour, the Triwizard Champion."

Poole's reaction to Hermione was a typical one, one she had grown used to through all the times of her patronage. "The usual corner, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione groaned. "Miss" reminded her of work and, Merlin forbid, Hogwarts. She was not sure if she should take the lackluster nature of Poole's response as an affront, but decided to instead focus on the seating. "Not today. And, please, just Hermione."

Once seated in a worn, leather-lined stall, the conversations resumed. The other patrons, while enthusiastic of their presence, kept to their drunken selves. Hermione kept quiet through Harry's chipper conversation with Fleur. It was not just her imagination that Harry had become more talkative. She wondered if it was due to Fleur's veela charm, but soon remembered that Harry would be rendered speechless and left to ogle like an idiot if that was the case.

No, Hermione concluded. Harry was simply radiating happiness. He was no longer held back by James and Lily Potter's deaths, or Dumbedore's, or Snape's, or Fred's, or Moody's. With Voldemort gone, he was ready to make peace with the world.

And judging from Ginny's own happiness, she was glad too. Whatever sort of happiness the redhead had gained by being with Harry, it had undoubtedly multiplied a hundredfold.

Hermione felt a little jealous. She hardly remembered the last time she was _that _happy. Yet she was glad. Harry and Ginny were, even while they were figuratively estranged, still one of her oldest and closest friends. Unsure of what to make of her newfound realization, Hermione sipped her beer quietly.

But Hermione had a much greater concern at hand. The stall they were seated in was quite small. This was no problem for the soon-to-be-married couple. On the other hand, Hermione was trying her hardest to create a distance between her shoulder and Fleur's own. This meant practically merging herself with the balmy green plaster wall.

"Another mug, Hermione?"

Hermione turned to Fleur, who seemed to be offering. That night, Fleur had the glee of a mischievous schoolgirl. She was a good girl back at Beauxbatons, never up to any sort of mischief. Even as an adult she was closer to the uptight sort. The War, of course, didn't count. And while she was often sleepless during the nights, it was never in a pub. Simply put, the atmosphere was stirring her naughty side. That and the two rounds of stouts she had just finished.

The four had been taking turns covering for the tab. It seemed to be Fleur's turn this time. All of the empty mugs on the table, including Hermione's own, were just screaming to be filled.

"Sure." Hermione whipped her face back to the plaster wall's general direction, trying not to look at the quarter-Veela in the eye. She felt so intimate with the wall now she might as well just buy it dinner and introduce it to her parents.

"Us too," waved the couple.

As soon as Fleur's back was turned, Hermione leaned across the table and hissed: "So much for hating her, Ginny."

The redhead scowled. "She's being surprisingly bearable. …Not that I've forgiven her for the divorce, mind."

Hermione was unconsciously counting on Ginny being snarky to Fleur. The plan had failed splendidly. "You're unbelievable."

"What about you? What's crawled up _**your**_ arse? I thought you two are chipper ever since the War."

Hermione huffed. "It's complicated."

Hermione wished she could ask Harry to get his hands on some Veritaserum. However, doing so would let him be privy to the emotions that were already professed to Hermione (rather openly, in fact). And, Harry being Harry, he would in turn tell Ginny. The two would meddle their way in faster than a nosy relative to a bad fashion sense. And while things were getting better friends-wise and she was feeling less like a lonely old maid, the last thing she wanted was a friend's meddling. Not to mention that Ginny was still likely to react badly to Hermione's newly discovered lesbian tendencies for Fleur.

Only Merlin knew what the redhead will do.

Regarding all of …this. (Bright as she was, Hermione could not come up with an accurate term to describe her predicament. For now, "screwed" would suffice.) Hermione decided she was better off without Harry's help. Harry had never been great at keeping still when it came to sensitive matters that would crumple at a breath. The scar on his hand was a tell tale sign of that.

Hermione glanced towards Fleur, who was talking to Poole as he refilled their beer. Poole seemed unaffected by Fleur's veela charm and the older woman seemed unspeakably glad. She seemed to be enjoying her time assimilating into the English sense of a good night out. Hermione blushed outright at the older woman's finely-sculptured profile. The unsuspecting woman's lips were quirked into a contented smile.

Hermione wanted to reach for the woman's face and shower her with rain-like kisses. But due to the presence of present company, she brushed aside the thought before it could digress into something far naughtier. To admit to such emotions was a sharp jab to Hermione's pride, especially after all the things she had said to Fleur.

But the woman's slender shoulders were just begging to be caressed. Nothing would make Hermione happier at that moment than transfiguring herself into Fleur's twill coat and lying in wait. Once Fleur put her on, she would be enveloping the woman with such an impossible closeness.

It had occurred to her that she would not have to transfigure herself if she could just own up to her turbulent feelings. But that was out of the question. She simply felt unready. The uncertainty of a romantic relationship felt like an immovable castle to her. It felt better to play it safe. Safe and alone.

Fingering the paper coaster, her mind wandered even further._ 'If we ever were to get together, just how long would we last anyway? And what if she leaves me? What will I do then?' _

Fleur came back with newly filled mug of beer. As she began redistributing them, Harry began:

"Have you heard? Hermione likes someone."

Hermione glared at Harry, who had said the line with the mischievousness of a grade-schooler. "You wanker. You promised," she hissed audibly.

"But you won't tell us who it is," added Ginny. "Fleur lives in the neighborhood. Maybe she's seen this mysterious person around."

_Oh, hell_, thought Hermione. She wasn't counting on all the estrogen in the Holyhead Harpies to turn her friend into a gossip hog. And Harry. '_What the hell is up with him?'_ she thought.

"So you like someone, Hermione?" Fleur asked cautiously. Hermione wondered what the older woman was so scared of, to have color disappear from her face in just a short span of time.

"Please," begged Hermione stiffly. She was tired of… all this. "Stop enabling them."

Her mind raced. _How did it come to this? Since when had Harry become smitten enough with Fleur to actually involve her in all of this? …Is it the beer? It must be the beer! Otherwise he wouldn't act so damn minced._

"I've always wondered what you type is, Hermione," mused Fleur. As casual as her voice sounded to Hermione, there was a slight strain to it.

Ginny snorted. "This one defies all types. Answer this: Is this person a muggle?"

"No," Hermione replied despite herself. "You wouldn't know her if she's a muggle."

The careless use of pronouns left Hermione sooner than she could ever pull it back, through magical means or otherwise. Fleur, who had looked ten different kinds of dejected before, smiled. "She?" the older woman inquired.

Hermione reciprocated with a glare. This was not how she wanted the older woman to know.

Then Hermione felt a light touch on her leg. She glanced down to find the older woman's fingers gingerly tapping against the fabric of her jeans with a concert harpist's dexterity.

Once Fleur was sure that she had Hermione's attention, the older woman leaned in and whispered a spell into the younger woman's ear. Hermione wished that one minuscule moment would last forever. Alas, Fleur pulled back. Written across her slender, open palm was _"Forgive me for being hopeful, but is it me?"_

So that she would not rouse any suspicion, Fleur said to the couple "I don't see a problem with that." Then she glanced underneath the patchy wooden table to see Hermione's reply. The spell was easily performed non-verbally and had a lasting effect upon casting. Judging from the dark ink-like scribble that ran across her palm, Hermione had no problem with it. The mechanism seemed simple enough to Hermione. Anything she thought, forcefully or otherwise, appeared right on her palm without a moment of lag.

"_Damn right it is_." The sentence seemed aggressive to Fleur, but the young brunette most definitely didn't look as angry as she had sounded in print. _"And stop being so meek and passive,"_ the younger woman added._ "It doesn't suit you."_

The reply was instantaneous. _"I was so afraid. …That you like someone else. But hearing this - _" The hand clenched before Hermione could read everything. It felt odd to Hermione that Fleur seemed less like her usually blunt self through this mode of communication, but she dared not put a specific thought to it. Not with her palm open for Fleur to read her every thought.

The gap that Hermione had desperately tried to create between her body and the blonde's before was destroyed by a single nudge. "_Don't be so happy so soon. Those two still can't know."_

Fleur unclasped her hand, letting her slender fingers spread like a blooming flower. Across her palm said: _"Bah. I would rather have you all to myself."_

"_Play your cards right, then maybe." _Hermione blushed at the reply written across her own palm. She had not meant for that to appear. Underneath the table, a swift kick to the side was promptly delivered. Judging from Fleur's wince, it was super effective. _"Damn spell."_

"Why so quiet? You know who it is, Fleur?"

Fleur smirked. For a moment, Hermione stopped cold out of the baseless fear that Fleur would something infelicitous, something like "Yes, it is me. If you two do not mind, we would like a private moment to ourselves so that I can, as they say, 'shag her silly'." But that fear subsided the moment the blonde clasped her hand around Hermione's sweaty own. Whatever ran in their minds at the time were rendered inaccessible by the gesture.

"I would not have a clue," said Fleur, smiling. It surprised Hermione how good the older woman was at lying.

Ginny, who had been eagerly leaning forward for an answer, slumped visibly. "That's no fun."

"Shame," agreed Harry. "Well, I'm sure you're busy. Gringotts is a hectic place."

"After you all robbed it, yes."

"It was for a good cause," Hermione grumbled. Nevertheless, she appreciated the light-hearted turn of conversation. The weight of her panic lifted from her chest, though not as much as she would like for it to. Fleur's hand was still on hers.

* * *

The happy chatter at the stall came to an end when Poole announced the last orders. When this was met with protests, he rang the bell again.

"**Get home to yer **_**wife**_**, **yer lot!" bellowed the usually-calm Poole as he held his final stand with feet firmly planted on the counter. "I know I gotta get to mine!"

Fleur, Hermione, and Ginny, who all had no wives to go home to , took this as a sign that they should still be on their way. Harry only heckled the bartender jovially. "What if she's here?"

As the other patrons scrambled towards the counter for their last drink of the night, the four stood before the entrance. As they waited for the bricks to shift and the doorframe to emerge, Hermione voiced her concern. "You really shouldn't drink and Apparate."

The couple laughed. "Too late, mate," said a rather tipsy Harry. "So you two are walking back, I take it."

"We could just Apparate," mumbled Fleur, also tipsy.

Hermione huffed, putting up a front to hide her mild tipsiness. "Fine then. _**I**_'ll walk."

Ginny chuckled. She was far, far, far from tipsy. "It's absurdly late. I'll Apparate. Just get home, you two!"

With a hug and a wave, they were gone. Curls of white Apparated smoke blew past Fleur and Hermione and out to the alleyways where the pub lay hidden.

"Well, I'm off."

Fleur turned and saw that Hermione had already bolted out the door. But Fleur wanted answers. Every ounce of her being propelled her body past the lopsided doorframe. Her fingers reached and clasped the elusive wrist before her as if it was an antidote to a fatally impossible curse.

How Fleur's mind begged then. '_Please. Please… Do not run… Now that I know that it is mutual, I will never let you go. Even when we grow old and gray, as long as I am still with you…'_

But as soon as her wrist was ensnared, Hermione whipped her head back to face the quarter veela. Fleur was stunned by the suddenness of the movement. She had expected the brunette to wriggle away and run, or at most Apparate. But she never expected Hermione to turn back. She had hoped for it, yes. But for Hermione to turn back and give her the most passionate eyes and the happiest of grins… it was simply baffling to Fleur.

Then Hermione turned around to face her completely. With a free hand, she lifted Fleur's fingers from her wrist one by one. Then she held that hand, palm open, and read its contents under the warm backlit glow of the pub.

There was another mechanism to the hand-message spell. For its effects to subside, it required a counter spell. Without it, the spell remained in effect for 3 hours upon casting. Fleur had not given Hermione the counter spell. In fact, the quarter-veela never knew what it was.

Hermione knew the spell was still on both of them when she saw that, even after their private conversation underneath the table, her hand was still marred with the distinct ink-like thoughts across her palm. While under normal circumstances she would rejoice that she was right, the chance to get a glimpse of Fleur's thoughts was simply too good to pass up.

Naturally, the results pleased Hermione beyond belief.

While Fleur could not read Hermione's hand at the time, she knew a blush when she saw one. Hermione's blush at that moment outshone a thousand suns. Her cheek, to which Fleur had lean in to kiss, gave her heat to last a thousand winters.

Despite this heat, Fleur quivered when Hermione lifted her eyes from Fleur's hands and turned her face to meet Fleur's lips. The two pairs of lips moved with perfect synchronization as they opened and suckled and nibbled. Tongues danced and frolicked as they traced their newfound landscape. Lip-locked, breathing became laborious.

Then a glass shattered, pausing the moment. Hermione and Fleur bolted apart and scrambled to see into the pub.

'_Did someone see?'_ both thought in unison.

No. The patrons were far too busy scrambling for their last drop of fermented barley tea. What felt like an eternity of bliss to them were just mere minutes to the rest of the world.

"When _I_ said _last orders_, I meant for _**booze**_! Get yer grub somewhere else!" Poole's curt yells emerged from the mob.

"I really should have gotten some pub grub," came Hermione's absentminded mumbling.

Fleur locked Hermione's arm in a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Let me cook you something," she offered.

Hermione glared at the older woman, suspicious. "…It's late."

Fleur smiled. "It's only food. Promise."

As they made their way out the alley and allowed the pub's entrance to close brick by brick, Poole took a moment to close the beer tap in a moment of contemplation. As the only person facing the entrance in the midst of a desperate mob, he alone saw everything. Wiping his hands with a beer-drenched rag, he sighed.

Hermione. She barely reached his shoulders, yet he knew she was the kind of customer worth a lifetime of remembrance. Night after night, she was always alone with piles and piles of paper and a pint, frowning away at Merlin-knows what.

But not tonight. Happiness and friends suited her far better than books and papers. Poole wasn't sure what to make of what he saw. He only sighed again and said "It's about the damn time she's allowed to be happy."

* * *

If this seemed rushed and sloppy to you, you're spot on. After all the comments I got after Chapter 4, I just didn't want to stop writing. So I didn't. (Just goes to show how much I love you guys, right?) I didn't really edit though. It's pretty obvious that I don't edit much, with or without dyslexia. I really appreciated the reviews regardless of my lack of edits, however.

But you probably won't be seeing another chapter till after Christmas. That would be because my finals start next week and I would like very much **not** to fail. I hate my major(s), but I still have to pass.

That said, **good luck to those with upcoming exams! **For those who have already had their exams,** I hope the grader isn't hungover when he/she is grading yours!**


	6. The Long Way Around

_**Warning**_: The note below is intended for "me". That is, the reviewer under the pseudonym "me". You can go all tl;dr and skip if you want. Won't blame you for it.

**To**: "me"

When a friend of mine saw your review when I was checking my mail with his laptop, he was livid. So was I, actually. Our general consensus was that if reviewer, namely you, thinks that this fanfic could be so much better with a few more "stuff" to add onto whatever's missing, then you should really write your own.

But then I realized that it's only been a few chapters. You're jumping to conclusions that this fanfic will progress the same way as most fanfic of this particular shipping would. Then I just can't stay mad. It's a misunderstanding, pure and simple.

I assure you that it won't. Not exactly, at least. We'll see.

Now, excuses time.

I write as a hobby. I'm currently studying in the 1st year of university, for a 3-year double major degree course that has never even heard of 101 classes. This does not mean I'm an overachiever by any means. I'm merely a victim of circumstance and insanely controlling Chinese-Thai parents. My full-time occupation is that of a student, not a writer. This means that I have no other incentive to write except for reviews from people who, while very lovely, I probably will never get to meet in real life. I don't get paid for writing fanfics. Only a handful of people in real life knows about it. I think none of them has actually read it since femslash isn't really up their alley.

I would like to point out now that your demand, as of my current predicament, is both highly appreciated and highly unreasonable. I have courses to study for, exams to take. I make do with whatever spare time I have conjuring lines after lines while enjoying a nice cup of coffee and a shitload of cigarettes. And have I mentioned my dyslexia? I must have. It makes reading very tiring and writing drafts very difficult. But the reviews I get for my work keeps me going. Unfortunately, the pace to which I write will always remain inconsistent. Since that is due to external influences, it is nothing that I can or will apologize for. I plan to write more often during the upcoming break, but that is if only I have not failed my exams and would be forced to take a re-sit.

The lack of reviews? It's probably because Fleur/Hermione is a pretty old ship. People want new things, something from K-ON! and the like. I found K-ON! too cutesy and moeshit and annoying, so I didn't jump that specific bandwagon.

As for the plot developments, I DO have a few other things up my sleeves. I do hope that you aren't deterred by my bluntness and will continue to see how this fanfic progress.

Cheers.

* * *

**Charmed**

**Chapter 6**

Fleur kept an even pace next to Hermione. It was the kind of time when one would not see a sensible person out and about and they were edgy, to say the least. The two young women must have passed at least 4 shadowy figures wobbling about, singing various show tunes. Hermione's personal favorite was the man who sang a somber version of "I Got Life". They passed him when he was just singing "I got my liver".

"Not if you keep drinking like that, you don't," chuckled Hermione. She had noticed the half-empty bottle of Beefeater in the man's chubby hands. Whatever the poison of his choice was, the rest of it was doomed to glugged down before daybreak.

It occurred to them that they should help them get home to their families. Hermione being Hermione, she had tried her routine with the first inebriated man they had passed. This routine involved light tapping on the shoulder, shouting "Do you need help getting home?" and talking the man into getting off the sidewalk. Being drunk, the man was immune to any quantifiable amount of persuasion.

Using a charm on him seemed like a bad idea. There was a high probability that he might be a muggle. And asking a drunk anything was bound to be unfruitful. When asked a question like "Are you a muggle?", the drunk in question would often claim themselves to be either Prince Charles' gay lover, "awesome", "Muggle? Dat som'fin' like 'em fuckin' Manks? Bloody hate 'em Manks, I do… ", or (a popular choice) a wizard.

They still refused to cast anything that would help alleviate the looming consequence of having had one too many drinks, even if the man claimed that he could shoot lighting out of his arse.

Fleur thought that they should at least make sure the men weren't drowning in their vomit. But Hermione's face spelled a tinge of hungry impatience. It was imperative that Fleur got some food in the younger woman, and fast.

Fleur wasted no time opening the door to her humble, albeit rental, abode. For a short moment, Hermione pried her eyes off Fleur's coated back and darted it around the streets.

She had been here before, Hermione realized. Fleur indeed lived in Hermione's neighborhood. While it most likely was a not deliberate choice on Fleur's part to choose a place just a block away from Hermione's, it made her suspicious to what sort of drama could ensue. Then her mind wandered to the more positive gradient of possibilities, which ranged from spending the night to pillow fights to romping the very moment they could smell each other's morning breaths. All the while, she kept her left hand firmly closed and occasionally forced herself to think of streetlights and kittens.

She found that there was something particularly distracting about the mere thoughts of kittens. Kittens, at least the non-part-Kneazle ones, always seemed to be constantly tripping on acid. Not that Hermione was familiar with the effects of lysergic acid diethylamide. It was just that how kittens behaved just seemed to fit into her mental image of how a particularly strong trip would look like from an observer's standpoint

Crookshanks was an exception. He's a full-grown half-Kneazle, not a kitten. And any attempt at playfulness was restricted to only when he was around spiders, gnomes, or chess pieces. Ron was an on-again, off-again case for the cat. Whether Ron's presence now would prompt Crookshanks to attack was not something Hermione was in any rush to find out.

"Hermione."

The young brunette turned to the end terrace behind her. Before the house's gaping entrance was Fleur, with a single slender hand outstretched towards her. When she ventured the handful of stairs to meet Fleur, she caught a glimpse of what was written on the woman's hand.

_'I wonder if she likes crepe.'_

Fleur's place, while clearly rental, was definitely occupied by Fleur. Over the simple television set were framed pictures, each ornate and animated with a wizarding touch. Skipping across the carpeted floor was a hand-held vacuum cleaner, silent but eager. The wooden coat hanger waved its many arms towards the two of them and resumed its post once their coats had been obtained. The fake-mahogany bookshelf that looked suspiciously IKEA-made and hand-assembled was filled with heavy volumes of numerous wizarding references. The window-side table had seemed suspiciously normal until she spotted a quill hovering over a half-filled parchment and a bottle of glowing purple ink. All of it reminded Hermione of the Disney adaptation of Beauty and the Beast that she had seen so long ago as a child. Add a couple of singing utensils and they were good to go.

A particular series of books caught her eyes: 'Veelas: Our Anatomy and Histories'. The row where the books were nestled in was on the verge of collapse under the weight. Hermione wasn't aware that veelas had such a rich history to fill so many books (9, to be exact). She would have jumped on it if only she had not found Fleur's hands on her waist to be so distracting.

Fleur took clear notice of Hermione's eyes on the bookshelf. "Sit," the older woman suggested as she led Hermione towards the sofa. "The books can wait." Her own hands never quite left Hermione's waist even as they plopped down on the sofa to relax from the draining walk. She found Hermione's body heat too comforting to let up.

Fleur's waist grab had long turned into a one-armed embrace. Her hands held both sides of Hermione's waist. Grinning, Hermione said "Copping a feel, are we?"

Despite her teasing, Hermione was cherishing the feel of Fleur's hands and body on her. Ron had never held her with such a gentle caressing touch. It was new and it was welcomed. She was sure that Fleur would keep her promise regarding the lack of hanky-panky, so she felt free to lean into the older woman as much as she wished.

"Partially." Fleur chuckled into the younger woman's ear. She found it was impossible to not do so due to their close proximity. "My hands are cold. You are warm and lovely to touch."

Hermione touched Fleur's hands and found them to be like ice. She kept her hands on Fleur's, hoping it would help. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Delacour. You should at least close the windows."

"I suppose I should, but my hands are a little preoccupied at the moment." Fleur winked.

"Fine." Hermione reached for her wand and waved the windows closed. Her hand parted for a short moment before it resumed its place.

The room was no longer filled with random gushing of the wind. While the hand-held vacuum cleaner hopped about, no sound was louder to the two women than the sound of their own breathing.

Hermione grew worried. Fleur's breath against her ear was causing a mild torrent of feeling from the area between her thighs and the awareness of it did nothing to soothe her mind. She felt something dripping and hoped it just wasn't her who was doing it.

Hermione's eyes, which were previously closed in a state of relaxation, fluttered open in cold panic. The atmosphere, the caress, they were all leading her straight to hanky-panky.

_Too fast_, thought Hermione hurriedly. _This is going too fast._

She needed to create a diversion for herself. After a moment of brainstorming and silent fumbling, she had the perfect plan.

"_Révélervoir_…" Hermione said the spell, careful not to actually cast it. She could not get the pronunciation quite right. "It's an unusual spell. I've never seen it in any books…"

This caught Fleur's attention, but not enough to dislodge her hands from Hermione's waist. Fleur began to run her warmed fingers along the fabric of Hermione's shirt as if it was just a simple compulsion. "It has been in my family for many generations. Passed down the Delacour line. The language you see the thoughts in also varies," shot Fleur excitedly. "I would see it in French, English only if I want to. It is natural that you would see it in English, hm?"

This came as no surprise to Hermione. It was a rare spell of non-Latin roots. It only seemed natural that it was a guarded spell learned through inheritance. Still, the spell grew more fascinating the more Fleur described it.

"I'm honored," said Hermione meekly.

Fleur smiled. She knew her parents would not approve of her unconventional use of the spell. Hermione's words had lessened her guilt. "Mother would use it on me whenever I am… difficult," said the older woman lightly into Hermione's ear.

"You, difficult?" teased Hermione.

"I have had my shares of disciplinary failings. I may look feminine and petite, but you know that it does not matter in the Wizarding world."

The 168 centimeter tall Hermione knew this. If size was ever a factor, she would have been long gone. Same applied to Fleur, who was just only 2 centimeters taller. If it was ever a factor, the two very petite women would not have lasted through the War. They would not be the veterans and instead would have to make way for the bigger, stronger sort.

A sudden rumbling broke their short moment of contemplation. It came from under Fleur's hands, inside Hermione's torso.

They had both forgotten about Hermione's late-night munchies. Her digestive tract, realizing this, complained vocally.

Realizing that the rumbling indeed was hers, Hermione turned the deepest shade of red humanly possible. As she lifted her hands to bury her face in them, Fleur held her tighter as she curled into Hermione's back in a poor attempt to suppress her laugher.

From Hermione's nape came a muffled voice, still half-laughing. "…Did your stomach just…?"

Hermione, face still in hands, muffled back a reply."…Yeah."

The older woman sat up. "Now, stay. I will make you crepe. Tea?"

"Yes, please," said Hermione, cheerily. She had let her face escape the confines of her hands once she realized that Fleur took her hunger in good humor. "No Englishwoman says no to tea."

"I hope you like Earl Grey." The quarter-veela detached herself from Hermione and took hold of her jawline. Fleur's lips landed lightly on Hermione's own, happy and teasing. The lips might as well have "Come get me" written across them, something Hermione would happily oblige if the quarter-veela wasn't so damn quick on her feet. Fleur had escaped her grasp before she could have snapped out of her peck-induced smitten state.

The peck had also opened another floodgate. The recollection of the recent development flooded over her. It was not that she had forgotten. Until the brief yet ever-sweet kiss, it felt too familiar and comfortable. It felt too much like a night spent at a friend's place. Excluding the hug, of course. Hermione just wasn't the "Hugs all around" type.

The time spent alone on the sofa allowed the return of one realization: "But friends don't kiss, do they? Not like that." And not when they were as tipsy as she and Fleur were. Although one rumored instance when Lavender Brown kissed people indiscriminately after a glass of Firewhiskey proved otherwise. But post-war celebrations were funny like that. People hadn't fussed about little things like drunken kisses or spilled drinks or carelessly thrown hexes. They were just glad to be alive.

Hermione had been invited to many of such parties, one of which she actually attended. She found the party itself to be too chaotic and the people attending it to be rowdier than hooligans in a Liverpool – Manchester United game. She remembered seeing Fleur there briefly. The quarter-veela was seated with her then-husband with two glasses of Firewhiskey. Fleur's glass was untouched. The older woman just fingered the rim of the glass absentmindedly, as if wishing to be elsewhere.

They seemed a little stiff together, Hermione recalled Ginny pointing out.

That was when she noticed the stiffness in her own relationship. The passion between her and Ron seemed to have long since been pushing up the daisies. The realization was so sudden she had just forgotten entirely about mourning for whatever that had been there.

It had made it easier for Hermione to go back to Hogwarts. Somewhere deep inside, somewhere that never heard of such a thing as sunshine, Hermione had known it was dead between the two of them. In retrospect, it must be why Ron's letter had failed to affect her so much. She had long since abandoned that ship and all the hopes that came with it.

Then Hermione realized that she reeked of beer. None had spilled on her, but the smell of hops was there in her breath. She wondered if Fleur minded, but felt too worn down to do anything to fix it.

Hermione indeed returned Fleur's feelings, though she wasn't sure why at this point. She was not even sure if she will ever be sure of the reason sometime within the foreseeable future. She had no name for what it was between them. But whatever it was, it had won her over. It and the sound and smell of a thoroughly whisked crepe batter being poured onto a frying pan. She wanted it to last, whatever 'it' is.

Now that everything had progressed so far in just one night and nothing had gone wrong so far, she was grudgingly willing to lie back and observe.

And hope. She had never been an optimist, but it felt like a good time to hope as any.

Hermione, finally able to put her own mind at ease, laid herself along the sofa with one side against the cushion. In one seamless progression, she fell asleep.

Fleur eventually emerged with a plate of fresh crepe and a small weaved basket full of bottled jams and honeys. A kettle was left over the stove to boil the water for tea. Setting everything down on the coffee table, she leaned over to see the rare site of a sleeping Hermione Granger. The younger woman was on her side, with every limbs of her body curved around a pillow. The defenseless display reminded Fleur of a sleeping cat. Kneeling by the sofa, Fleur watched as Hermione's chest heaved and fell.

Fleur remembered vaguely about a random trivia Gabrielle had picked up from her divinations class. It was something about how one's sleeping position revealed something about one's personality. Since she had dismissed it as rubbish, she was unable to recall any specific details that could be used to apply to Hermione's sleeping form.

Whatever how the brunette was curled around a pillow meant, Fleur found that it stirred a light feeling in her chest. After 9 years of anguish and secret pining, that moment alone was so beautiful to Fleur that she wanted to immortalize it forever. Alas, she had not a camera in her possession to grant such a wish.

Fleur sighed. She only had her memory to rely on and her own hands to create them. It was the long way around when it came to preserving a piece of precious memory, but it all seemed worth it.

"_I guess I'll just have to not fuck this up_."

Fleur took a moment to burn Hermione's helpless form into her mind. Once done, she reached for the young woman's thin shoulder and lightly shook on it.

"Wake up, Hermione. You need to eat."

* * *

**Merry belated Christmas and Boxing Day, everyone!** Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. The pace feels kinda slow to me right now. Maybe I should speed things up a notch or two.


	7. Sweet Conspiracy

Have you guys seen Black Swan? If not, you really should. Great stuff! Tron Legacy? Not so much. Tron is far superior. That said, everyone should watch Fringe! Don't let the bastards even **think **of cancelling such a masterpiece. Mwuhaha!

Advocacy aside, enjoy this chapter! :D

* * *

**Charmed**

**Chapter 7**

Hermione had left before the first light of dawn. Fleur had insisted that she walk Hermione home, to which the younger woman had declined.

"It's late," Hermione had said. "You need to sleep."

Any retaliation Fleur had managed thereafter had been sealed with a kiss.

The kiss had been only for a short moment. It involved no tongue and no random groping by other limbs. It was a simple contact of one pair of lips to the other, but Fleur knew a great kisser when she kissed one. It had felt strange and amazing to receive, especially since it had come from Hermione. It declared a welcomed lack of innocence and a skillfulness she had not previously attributed to Hermione. It was as if Hermione had wanted to state "I'm not a child."

And a child Hermione wasn't. She had indeed grown and was no longer the same child Fleur had fallen in love with so many years ago. The change had made Fleur love her all the more.

"Are you sure you do not want to spend the night?" Fleur had remembered saying that, dazed as she had been. They had both parted from the kiss and continued in a close embrace. Their foreheads had touched so closely, it was possible to theorize that the world's first mind link had occurred then.

"One step at a time, Mademoiselle Delacour." Hermione managed a small laugh. "Not that I don't want to. You can check if you want to."

Fleur had caught of Hermione's left hand before the younger woman could present her thoughts. "I believe you. And it is not like you can resist my charms, hm?"

Fleur was alone now, hovering over the same parchment she planned to send to Gabrielle. She was not sure how to finish the rest of her letter. So many things had happened in only a single night Fleur was not sure if the parchment would have enough room.

Now that Fleur was no longer feeling borderline suicidal, she did not see the need to go to work. Alas, an obligation was an obligation, especially when she had owled in that she was coming. She blamed the lack of foresight on her part, still knowing all the while that a sudden bout of romance was not something one could really plan for.

_Or is it?_

Fleur smelled conspiracy. The presence of Hermione on the street that night had been a welcomed anomaly, one that is likely catalyzed by Harry and Ginny. It seemed too convenient, too well-timed. And after considering that Hermione was not athletic, even by wizarding standards, it seemed even less likely for her to be taking a nightly stroll.

It frustrated her that she had not thought of the possibility before, but her mind tended to work differently when Hermione was around.

But even if it was a grand conspiracy of some twisted kind, Fleur felt uncompelled to pursue the answers. To know that Hermione felt something even remotely similar to affection for her… It was as if her life before had just been a long-winded prelude.

It was morning. She wasn't obligated to clock in at a specific time, though the general rule dictated something along the line of "as soon as possible".

Donning her work robe, she resolved to make the best out of it. She was glad that the beers were no longer affecting her, or else the morning light would have killed her retinas the moment she Apparated to the snowy-white front of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

Fleur was greeted by the usual scene of rows of goblins calibrating the scales on their raised workstation. She walked past them to the last goblin of the row, whose quill immediately paused at the sight of Fleur.

"Mobok. I am working today, as you have probably noted from my letter last night."

"If by 'last night' you mean just before the crack of dawn, Miss Delacour," said the goblin sardonically. His sharp, white teeth appeared in midst of the wrinkles. Mobok was considerably younger than most of the goblins staffed in this branch of Gringotts. His voice also had the tendency to squeak whenever he felt the need to be humorous. But the wrinkles seemed to be there no matter the age of the goblin in question. It must be a goblin thing. "Yes."

"Any new assignments?"

"Yes. One just came in today, in fact. But here is not the proper place for discussion. Come."

The goblin hopped from his chair and led Fleur to the staff only section of the bank.

"I don't know how much you make reading the Daily Prophets to be a habit of yours, Miss Delacour. Considering the fact that you're French, I don't think it's very likely." Fleur glared at the goblin's receding hairline. "Umbro Horliner died last night. As you know, he's one of our best private contractors."

And the best he was. Of all the securities measures for Gringotts, Umbro Horliner's works were the most elaborate. His Geminio was the longest-lasting, his Flagrante the most powerful.

"Considering that he just suddenly decided to take a dirt nap on us, replacements must be made. The usual, as you know. And so I extend the offer to you, Miss Delacour."

Fleur froze. Sure enough, she had secured a steady reputation gain for herself. But to take on this job meant something else entirely. The countless hours, the schedule, the potential grievous bodily harm. It filed under a higher hierarchy in her line of work, which was dangerous enough to begin with. All the curses and dragons and flames… It was the kind of career that, while lucrative, had people exiting more often than entering, often in a receptacle akin to an urn.

Yet it was the kind of contract that ensured that she would never be out of work ever again. If she lived through it, that is.

The goblin drummed his fingers against the table. Every inch of his body dripped the most concentrated kind of loathing. It was a common sight, considering how much goblins hated to part with their own gold, to admit to their inability to conjure elaborate, creative, and often downright insane security measures. The fact that she was a quarter-veela had not helped much when it came to dealing with goblins. She looked too human for them to feel like they should go easy on her. Her vela charms were too weak to affect a suspecting goblin. And Mobok had the kind of high-strung paranoia that surpassed the usual contemptuous type.

But a job was a job. And what a job this was.

"I did not see this coming," said Fleur, still gaping.

"I didn't want to talk about this over the owls," grunted Mobok. "Too much detail is involved. Instead, let us go to the vaults in question."

"Wait. I would need more time to decide."

Mobok rolled his eyes. He saw this coming, no doubt, but was annoyed nonetheless. "Understandably. A week, perhaps?"

"A week."

"To the vaults, then."

* * *

Sunday. A citizen's weekend was a bureaucrat's free time. Hermione Granger had spent what was left of her weekend so far thankful that she had not done something she regretted under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol. But what were copious amounts of alcohol to a young Englishwoman if not typical.

_Not typical enough_, thought Hermione. Drinking alone and social drinking were completely different. On her own, she would have downed a couple of pints and spring right back in the morning. The whole process does not happen whenever she drank amongst friends, where the "No" in "No more" was often omitted and if she still acted prudish, she obviously was not drinking enough. But judging from the lack of hangovers, Harry and Ginny undoubted held back last night. Due to Fleur, no doubt, though the reason to why eluded her.

Hermione crawled from her bed and to the bathroom. Then she walked out of the living room, where her previous night's attire had created a snaking trail leading from her bed to the front door.

Then it occurred to her why she was feeling so cold and glanced down to confirm. Ashamed for no one's sake except for her own, she brought a hand to her forehead.

_I really have been single too long, haven't I? And in this weather. Ugh._

She quickly showered and got dressed, with hope to shake away the groggy feeling before she would have to stick to her rule: _No Apparition when you're proper drunk or feeling proper shit._

Hilariously enough, the feeling persisted and no amount of swearing made it go away.

On her way out, Hermione heard a faint series of baritone chimes from a church bell. She wasn't able to place the exact direction or proximity, just "Pretty far". The bells were so distant to her ears, she wondered if they were even there to begin with.

Hermione was unable to remember the last time she had ever ventured a single step into a church. Her parents were not much of the church-going sort, which was great since otherwise the notion of Hermione attending a wizarding school would never sit right with them, let alone happen.

On her way to Diagon Alley, Hermione came across a simple glass-fronted flower shop. She paused in front of the bucketed flowers that lined the front. The florist was nowhere to be seen.

Fingering a stalk of lavender, Hermione imagined the purple of the flower against the older woman's silvery-blonde locks.

A passing thought came to her. _…What kind of flower does she like? Doesn't seem like she's allergic. I'll have to ask._

Then she wondered what flower Ron liked, only to remember that she never knew. Not that he would have ever owned up to it. He always liked for people to think that he was macho and capable. It annoyed her how hard he tried.

She left the lavender in the large tin bucket and made a turn for the Charing Cross Road. Soon enough, she was right in front of the fashionably run-down Leaky Cauldron.

The interior was eternally grubby, as if the look was consistently maintained and tailored to the occupants. Puffs of smoke emitted from a dark corner. A faint murmur of conversation drifted from the less shaded of occupants. Eyes were cast towards Hermione and soon left her once they have determined she was not a Muggle.

Oddly enough, Hannah Abbott was nowhere to be seen. Hermione was hoping to have a little chat with the woman, perhaps give her praise for how well she had been maintaining the place ever since Tom retired. But since the landlady was gone and the guests were left to their own devices, Hermione continued on to the back.

Wand drawn, she tapped the bricks of the back wall in a counter-clockwise motion. The bricks yawned and gaped into a passageway soon enough.

Diagon Alley was as lively as its pre-War days. Robed men and women shuffled about, enthralled by various assortments of magical doodads. Children too young for Hogwarts glued themselves to the shops of their choices, ignoring dubious sales pitches from various street peddlers.

But Hermione's destination for the time being was no shop. Without any delay, she entered Gringotts.

Fleur was discussing the final details with Mobok in the main hall when Hermione entered. Chatter from various patrons erupted around her.

_"It's Hermione Granger."_

_"Harry Potter's friend, isn't she?"_

_"Where's Harry Potter then?"_

Fleur felt irate. All the talk about how Hermione was a friend of The Chosen One and the like got on Fleur's case in a nasty way. '_They're not even looking at __**her**_,' she thought angrily. She liked Harry just fine, but it wasn't Harry that she was crushing on, was it?

Trains and trains of French obscenities circled her mind. Before she could stop them, Hermione was already in front of her. The younger woman was clad in Muggle clothes of fitted jeans and a black wool twill coat. She hesitated in front of Fleur for a moment.

And then the bomb dropped.

"H – H – Hi. Are you working?"

Fleur flinched instantly. _Why are you being so meek? And the fidgeting. Too cute. TOO CUTE._

Fleur turned to Mobok and excused herself before making a hasty retreat. She took hold of Hermione's elbow and began leading her towards a doorway.

"This way."

"Where are we going?"

The room was empty and, since it was situated underground, severely lacking in windows. One of the walls was lined with lower-than-average counters. It occurred to Hermione that it was some sort of a break room for the Gringrotts staff.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Fleur pulled Hermione into the crook of her body.

Hermione wiggled out of Fleur's embrace hurriedly. "Are you mental? What if someone walks in?"

"Feign nonchalance?" suggested Fleur. "I have locked the door, so do not worry."

"…You ARE mental. I can't bloody believe this."

"Would you rather I do this in _your_ workplace?"

Hermione grimaced. In the Ministry of Magic, the bureaucracy galore? "Most. Definitely. NOT."

"I am just happy to see you. Is that wrong?"

"No. Here is just a shitty time and place to be snogging."

Fleur seemed confused. "Who says we are? …Does this mean that you want to?"

Hermione reddened into a dangerous shade. "I – I – Oh, just shut it."

Fleur leaned in whimsically, still gauging the safe distance to which she could prod Hermione and not be hexed. "Can I still hug you?"

Hermione buried her face into the older woman's work robe like a tired and tamed animal. "…Fine."

And so they remained latched together for a moment, perfectly content.

Fleur decided it was a good time to break the news as any. "I got a new offer. For my work."

"Then why are you being so odd?"

"It is too sudden. Great opportunity, but the hours… I am not sure if I should take it."

Hermione gulped. It felt wrong to see Fleur so nervous, so vulnerable. She felt the quarter-veela's heartbeat quicken abruptly. Fleur kept going still, albeit nervously. "We… We barely just started. I would like to have the free time to spend with you as much as possible."

Hermione glared. "That's not how it works, is it? You still need to work. And it's a great chance! …And it's not like I'm going anywhere. I'll come by often, if you want."

As Hermione continued to glare menacingly, Fleur blinked blankly. Was that an offer? It sounded like an offer.

"And it's not just because I like you or anything, all right?" Hermione straightened herself. "It's a big job and you need to focus as much as possible."

"…Thank you." Fleur held Hermione tight. Such an open support felt alien to her. It was not something Bill had given her, especially after marriage. He had always insisted on her settling down in some demented "War veteran" to "Housewife" fashion. The idea never sat right with her. She had tried to adjust herself to the role before and found that, while she was not terrible at the typical array of wizarding household chores, the notion of being house-ridden had bugged her terribly.

"It is barely a day and it seems like you are the best thing to ever happen to me."

"It's called the honeymoon period." Hermione huffed, unsure of what to do with the older woman's praise. "Anything you look at right now might as well be shooting rainbows out of its arse."

Fleur laughed. "I will take it anyway. Would you like to come over tonight? Just the two of us."

"What about dinner?"

"I cannot cook much. And if you don't feel like cooking, I am willing to give Chinese takeouts a try."

"An adventurous Frenchwoman. I like. Whatever happened to the whole 'No place like home' thing?"

Fleur grimaced for a moment. She then plastered on a smile, for Hermione's sake. "Life is too short. If there ever is another war, I don't want to die living such a… limited life."

Hermione pressed further into Fleur's body, searching for the warmth she had come to know during the worse period of their lives. They were the lucky ones, to go head-on against the Death Eaters and live. But they had paid a hefty sum for their survival and never remained quite the same as they were.

"It won't happen again," said Hermione, hopeful. "We took care of that."

* * *

Poole was good at keeping his mouth shut. It was an occupational habit he had unwittingly picked up so many years as a tavern master. Like a taxi driver's tendency to turn to the side while speaking, it was a hard habit to overcome.

And secrets often needed an outlet. No exceptions.

Like all happily married men, Poole's outlet was his wife. Whatever conspiracy to murder or anything like it that Poole had overheard, his wife was the first to know.

It was comparable to pouring water onto the ground, really. Not only was the water not retained, it spread itself thin and went everywhere.

The populace had Rita Skeeter to thank for that.

See, Rita Skeeter had been listening in. She had been doing so for quite some time.

Poole's wife, Magmilla, was not a woman who shared Poole's occupation. Being a florist specializing in mildly carnivorous plants, she was quite adept at small talk. It was the kind of small talk that gets people engaged enough to not notice the plants nibbling at the end of their robes. It was the kind of talk that bordered on gossip, with the intention to cause harm the only thing that was missing. It was the kind of talk that Rita Skeeter fed on. As for the intention to cause harm, she had plenty of that to fill the gap.

Needless to say, anything Poole shared with his wife had the tendency to spill onto the general public. This was all thanks to Skeeter, who had been using Magmilla as a source for quite some time. Of course, she was never in the shop in her human form. People tend to be tight-lipped around her. Things they read on the Daily Prophet were enjoyable only when it was scandalous and it wasn't about them. Skeeter can be found as an inconspicuous little beetle high on the ceiling, safely out of reach.

But Rita shifted from the high beam and made for the topmost window. Work was done for the day. Anything she was up to after that was for the sake of seething, overdue revenge.

While she set off to orchestrate her grandest work in history, the animangus felt that it was going to be a good day.

* * *

**And so the plot thickens. Dun dun DUNNNNN.**


	8. An Auror, A Potion, and A Skeeter

Happy Chinese New Year! Finally done with chapter 8, so enjoy! Naturally, reviews are very much appreciated. :3

* * *

**Charmed**

**Chapter 8**

"Talk"

A wand of 11 inches holly with a phoenix feather core jabbed into the bearded double chin of Jacob Stibbons. The room was tall and narrow, with a ceiling that seemed to stretch on forever. It was kept lit by an unseen light source, one which Harry Potter had always been wondering about since the first day he started his career as an Auror. They were at Level Two of the Ministry, after all. Or they were supposed to be. Only Merlin knew how the damn elevators worked in the wizarding world.

But that was to be left for later. Work first.

"'Haps Umbro got offed or somefin'" The man shrugged. "'Haps it's got nofin' to do wif me."

"The Hit Wizards happily confirmed that the last spell you cast. Or maybe I should get your wand here and cast _Prior Incantato_ myself."

"Yeah? But I killed no one, innit?"

"We know you didn't kill him. I'm talking about the Cruciatus Curse."

Jacob Stibbon's eyes went wide. His brown corneas fluttered around the room before they decided the room was far too brightly lit to be wandering around anywhere beyond Harry's clean-shaven face. The pair of graying eyebrows then furrowed as he wondered if the the young Auror was truly on to something. "...You fink I used an Unforgivable Curse?"

"It's on your wand, Stibbons. And many witnesses placed you near the scene of the crime. And a smart crook like you must know about the Anti-Disapparition Jinx around the area."

"So?"

"Which means we're looking for someone else. Bigger fish to fry and all that. You must have seen someone. One of your fine associates, maybe. Or maybe Umbro let something slip while you tortured him. A name?" Harry loomed over an increasingly sweaty Stibbons. "And cut it with the Brummie. You're from Surrey. I know your parents taught you better than that."

This seemed to have straightened him up. The words that came out of him thereafter were less heavily-accented. "Look_.. _Sounding like a Brum helps me with the trade. _Maybe_ I did cast the curse. That doesn't mean I cast it on Umbro. We're business partners. I have no reason to be torturing him, or anyone."

"You're doing Birmingham a disgrace," sighed Harry. "Funny thing you should know about Umbro Horliner, Stibbons. He's muggle-born."

"So? I don't care about that blood purity crap. As long as the share is split even, we're all happy."

"And what would you do when it's not? Torture him into giving it to you? You must have been very mad at him for that, Stibbons."

Stibbons stiffened up, as if suddenly remembering where he had forgotten his testicles. "You got no proof that I did in Umbro."

Harry waved his ward to the side. A light emitted from the tip of the wand before expanding to the rectangular shape of a projection. Two gray men men were inside a gray scale room, first greeting each other at the doorway. Once the door was closed, the larger man pounced on the older one and took him by the collar. He whipped out his ward and stood back as he let the Cruciatus Curse worked its magic. The older, smaller man kicked and crooked his body into a fit of pure indescribable pain.

The larger man stopped at intervals as he barked at the crumpled man before him. The smaller man held on somehow, remaining tight-lipped and shaking his head all the while.

"And I don't. But I got proof of you performing an Unforgivable Curse on Mr. Horliner 3 weeks ago. Isn't muggle technology great?"

Stibbons frowned deeply. Nothing was more iron-clad than a non-memory based evidence. That face, that build. The fact that it was him in that clip was irrefutable. His ass was the Ministry's now. The Harry Potter standing before him was just playing nice. Things were going to get a lot worse for him if he still insisted on not cooperating.

_Potter, you bastard. You've had the upper hand all along!_

_

* * *

_

Harry took a sip of coffee and sighed. "I'm not cut out for this, Ron."

Ron scoffed. The rising rookie, not cut out for the job. Harry was being ridiculous again. "What are you talking about? You're doing fine."

"I don't like the man I'm becoming. All this 'bad cop' routine."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "We're not coppers."

Harry winced at this. "Muggle slang, Ron. And we arrest people, don't we? Close enough."

Ron shrugged and decided not to pursue it further. "I can't believe the muggles collaborated with us on this. It took them weeks to restore the tape, sure," mused Ron. "Horliner died because of some kind of curse, didn't he?"

"Yeah. We can't track it. The strange thing is... The Met says that the camera was destroyed by a gun."

Ron scratched his chin. "Must know the victim, then. And why all the trouble of using a muggle weapon if you're gonna kill the guy with spell?"

"Dunno. Stibbons sure wasn't helpful. The curse was purely for the sake of business. He wanted the name of the guy who sold a spell to Horliner."

"What if that's got to do with the case?"

Harry watched the contents of his mug emptily. "I wish. But even Horliner didn't know the name, according to Stibbons."

"You know better than to trust a crook, Harry," Ron urged.

Harry pat his partner on the back. "We'll see."

* * *

The door to Fleur's place gave way under a decisive turn of the knob. Hermione no longer had the need to knock. The front door seemed to always be unlocked, as if Fleur had aptly timed the moment of her arrival.

Sure enough, Fleur perked her head from the sofa expectantly. Clad in trousers and a crisp blue buttoned shirt, Fleur pat the empty spot in front of her. Hermione sat as gestured, but the silver cauldron nearby had long since captured her attention with its unvarying stream of purple opaque bubbles.

"What in the world are you brewing?" gaped Hermione, too focused on the numerous ingredients laid bare on the coffee table to notice Fleur's fingers dexterously undoing the hooks of Hermione's bra. The act itself was supposed to relieve Hermione from the pressure of her all-too-small brassiere.

While it was not intended to be sexual it had given Fleur some less-than-proper ideas. Gushingly delicious ones.

Until the brunette agreed to a trip to a lingerie shop, Fleur swore to herself to keep doing this to Hermione. Eventually the brunette will relent.

"It is a potion," said Fleur, successful in her attempt to be as vague as possible. "Does it look familiar?"

"...A little." Hermione drew in a tortured gasp of breath as Fleur's hand became much harder to ignore. The fine fingers ran up Hermione's spine and against the crease-less fabric of her white buttoned shirt. Her sharp and insightful mind, the mind that would have identified the potion before her with ease under normal circumstances, was paralyzed by ceaseless anticipation.

As Hermione was preoccupied by the bubbling cauldron on top of the coffee table amongst other things, Fleur swept the brunette into her arms and down against her chest. Hermione yelped in surprise, but did very little in terms of resistance.

"Give up?" came a faint, teasing whisper.

The answer was obvious enough. "No. I'll figure it out on my own."

Fleur smiled. "And you will. I will just have to keep on distracting you."

Indignant, Hermione said "We'll see".

"It is May," said Fleur, planting a kiss on top of the younger woman's brown locks. Jumping onto a completely different topic often derailed Hermione.

And it worked splendidly. Hermione turned to look at Fleur's earnest face before slumping back down into the older woman's arms. Her face laid on a slender collarbone. A heart thudded in her ear as she lay, a heart Hermione wasn't sure was whose. But it beat strong and vibrant, content and excited. "So it is."

"It has been three weeks."

"Already?"

"And so far it is going great."

"We might still be in our honeymoon period."

Fleur let out a short laugh. She ran a hand against the brunette's locks of unusually silky hair. She wondered how much longer would the younger woman's insistence on using the Sleekeazy's Hair Potion last, despite Fleur's own claims that the extra step was not necessary.

"I – I just want to put some on, all right?" Hermione had claimed before. It gradually became obvious to Fleur that Hermione was a horrible liar under normal circumstances, which came across as a potential source of unending hilarity for Fleur.

"I am sorry to say this," began the Frenchwoman. "But it has been a while since I stopped seeing rainbows shooting out of people's bottoms."

Hermione smiled. "Likewise."

"How is work?"

An audible groan came. "The usual bureaucratic shite. You?"

"Like being in a building full of goblins. Unsociable and snide and paranoid." Fleur gave way to a small shudder.

"Worth it, I heard."

Fleur sighed. "And you heard correctly. It is just... uncomfortable. They treat me like I am pure-blood. They forget I am part Veela and just as discriminated against as them."

"Doesn't your charm work on them?"

"Not that I know of. But... It doesn't work on you either."

"And look at where I am now." Hermione smiled. "I'm not here because of your Veela charm. I'm here because you're you. And I'm sure they'll come around once they know you better."

"Really?"

"Really."

A devious grin grew across Fleur's face. "So is it true that you used to hate me?"

Hermione paled. It wasn't a huge secret, not amongst her close friends. That opinion had long waned since the days she had spent being nursed back to health by Fleur. But to know that Fleur knew about it all along was another thing entirely.

"W – W – Where did you hear that?"

"A little bird told me a long time ago." Fleur felt the younger woman quivered in her arm and sought to calm her down by light strokes. Normally Hermione would have fled by now. To remain here was causing her to tremble madly. "What? I am not angry."

"Then why are you bringing this up now?"

"Why not?"

Hermione buried her face further into Fleur's collarbone. Realizing that her heart had quickened to a dangerous rate, she thought '_Her honesty will be the death of me'._

"...It's embarrassing," admitted the brunette.

"I have heard the worse of it before, I am sure."

Hermione groaned. She knew well of Fleur's stubbornness by now. If as this was just a ploy to distract her from discerning the contents of the cauldron, it was working splendidly.

"Fine," huffed Hermione. "You know how I used to like Ron before."

"Yes," groaned Fleur. She wasn't expecting Hermione to begin it with her ex-boyfriend, but there was no helping it. _Her story, not mine._

"He was smitten with you then. All the boys are. And I didn't really know you back then, so I thought you were a little... snobbish."

Fleur huffed proudly. "I do not like to settle for less."

"And you're very vocal about it."

"Is it bad?"

"It's a bad first impression."

"We never talked then."

"You talked to Harry and Ron. You know how we were in those days."

"_Des trio_. I remember."

"I don't get it. You never even tried to talk to me. How did you even realize it?"

"... Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Hermione looked up to glare at the older woman. "... Are you serious?"

And so all her secret habits spilled themselves bare before her.

"Yes. I love how you sit with a book. How you twirl your hair when you think no one is around. How you rub your temples when reading a particularly hard book. How you drool a little when you sleep. "

"! You saw that?" gasped Hermione, full of embarrassment and dread. Not even Harry and Ron had ever seen her asleep in the library.

But Fleur wasn't finished. "You like to be in the deepest parts of the library when you're not with friends. You are hard on people, but it shows that you truly care. You hate to be embarrassed, and you like to hide yourself away with a book when you are. You have read all that Hogwarts has to offer about house elves. You like to cry in secret, no matter the reason."

Hermione blinked at the pair of deep blue eyes gazing at her. The same pair could very well be staring into her soul right then for all she knew. "How? When?"

"The library. I had to research for the Triwizard Tournament."

"Doesn't Beuxbaton have its own library?"

"It doesn't have you."

Words are powerful. They are even more so when they practically radiate honesty and love. Sure enough, Fleur's words had torn right through Hermione's composure the very moment they came.

Hermione felt herself tearing up despite herself. Tears condensed and grew to blur her vision. And when the tears decided they have not done enough damage, they began to trickle down onto Fleur's blue shirt. The wet, dark blue patch expanded with each drop of condensed happiness and more closely resembled the color of Fleur's eyes.

Hermione felt that very same pair of eyes staring back at her and wondered what Fleur thought. Surprised, surely, but Hermione also felt a kind of unflinching resolve from the way the older woman refused to let her go.

Hermione's tears were now a secret between the two of them. Embarrassing as her crying felt to her, Hermione refused to shy away from Fleur. Not even for a second.

"...Stalker."

"I love you too, Hermione."

Eyes still teary, Hermione leaned forward for a kiss.

* * *

"Don't look," warned Hermione automatically from the shower, as curtly as the days before.

She had recovered from her previous moment and was back to her old self. The sound of the shower and the view of Hermione's bare and wet body were obstructed by the opaque shower screens. The warm bath that had been meticulously and magically drawn had already begun to steam up the mirror. Fleur waited for Hermione under a layer of soapy goodness.

'_If only I can use my wand without her knowing...'_ thought Fleur glumly. While they had been bathing together, never had Hermione let any part of her slip beyond what was often seen when she was clothed. Her eyes were always kept closed as the younger woman slipped in and out of the tub as promised.

It felt odd to Fleur to have yet seen the bare body of the woman whose kisses she had been living on. But Hermione had made things clear that she wanted things to be slow and steady and Fleur had agreed to it. That had not stopped Fleur from wanting the younger woman in a more physical way. It was just that she had not been making such desires known.

As ready as Fleur was to lead Hermione into the depth of carnal desires, Hermione must also be ready to take the plunge. Patient as she was, having to do so confused her deeply.

Hermione emerged dripping and towel-wrapped from the shower. Her hair clung onto her shoulders, dark brown and dripping. "Eyes," she said to Fleur.

After a few moments of tightly closing her eyelids and a light ripple of bathwater, Hermione was in. The Undetectable Extension Charm gave them plenty of leg room in the bath. They sat on the rim of the expanded tub, shoulder to shoulder.

"Can I stay over tonight?"

Fleur blinked. Hermione was often very particular when to came to nights. It was the only time she wanted to work on _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ the only time she could afford to. "Of course. Why ask all of the sudden?"

"It's the first time I ever sleep over," said Hermione, fidgeting with a handful of soap bubbles before her. "And we live so close. And it's Friday ... And I want to see you when I wake up."

"The last one... What an odd reason."

Hermione reddened. "Is it?"

"You will see me regardless of whether you see me the first thing in the morning."

"Getting breakfast together isn't the same."

"True, but it makes me happy to see you either way." Fleur planted a kiss on Hermione's forehead. "You smell nice."

Hermione giggled at that. "It's your shampoo."

"It is not just the shampoo, then."

With an embarrassed nudge, Hermione said "Stop inflating my ego, Miss Delacour."

"If you insist. What are we going to do about dinner?"

"Anything's good. Have you got anything in mind?"

"I have this recipe I've been wanting to try out. Already bought the ingredients too."

"Aren't you prepared?" teased Hermione.

* * *

The two settled back onto the sofa once they were done cleaning up the kitchen. As Fleur was checking on purple content of the cauldron, Hermione leaned into Fleur and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

"Thank you for the chicken couscous," she said. "Has the Dreamless Sleep potion settled yet?"

Fleur grinned, genuinely happy. "So you have figured it out."

"Well, I've never seen one being made before. But the color looked familiar."

"Bah. It has its normal purple color, but it is not nearly done," added Fleur firmly. "See the bubbles? You know it is done when the bubbles are gone. ...But I know you would much rather be hugged by me than learn the recipe right now, so here!"

The older woman threw herself across the sofa and patted on her chest. Hermione joined her shortly, her head on the older woman's chest and her chest against Fleur's torso.

Fleur touched the elastic band of Hermione's plain black boxers. "You look cute in this."

Hermione groaned into Fleur's form-fitting t-shirt. "I don't have anything else," she protested.

Fleur could care less. The way Hermione's body was turned, the boxer showed the light curve of the brunette's cute, perky butt. The sight of it drove Fleur a little lightheaded and mad.

"I could eat you up either way," confessed Fleur, licking her lips. She felt like being a little brave and crazy. After all, what's the harm? The worse Hermione would do was just brush the comment aside shyly like her usual self.

But the response that came was "...Do you really mean that?"

Fleur's train of thought halted, unbelieving. She search her mind, but the only thing that emerged was a single _Huh?_

"'Cause I wouldn't mind that," the brunette added.

That sent Fleur blushing.

_Am I dreaming, or is she...?_

"A – Are you sure?"

But before Fleur was a very determined Hermione. A very shy and very determined Hermione, struggling with her reserve right in Fleur's arms.

"It's been 3 weeks and you haven't made a move, so... Let's go to your bed."

And so Fleur was led by the lips towards her room, to a night of passion beyond the pair's wildest dreams.

* * *

"She's not here tonight. AGAIN," hissed Rita Skeeter from her thick woolen scarf. The beer in her hand sloshed and spilled onto the cloaked figure before her. "I should have never paid you!"

"Shut up, you cheap, conniving bitch," the cloaked figure shot at her, voice distorted and angry. "You already paid the gold. And she's often here at nights. Let's see if you can find a better source than me in London."

"But _The Hairy Wand_? Why would she be here, of all places?" Skeeter cast her eyes around the pub, groaning all the while.

"Merlin strike me if _I _know. The booze? The people? Poole's pretty nice for a bartender." The cloaked man paused his monologue. "... And where are you going?"

Wand drawn, Skeeter was already making way for the exit. "If she's not going to come tonight," The disguised woman shot back. "Then I'm not staying!"

The cloaked man leaned into the stall and took a sharp swig out of his whiskey bottle. The cloak's hood shifted only barely, just enough for people to know that it was a human being behind the thick polished iron mask, with lips to enjoy the drink and the neck to carry the drink through. The man wiped his mouth with an iron-gloved hand before looking at the closing exit.

"Hmph. Like I care."


	9. When Surprise Comes Knocking

It's hardly a week and I'm already done with a new chapter. It's the awesome reviews that are making me do this, so yay!

I always get insanely embarrassed while writing sexy scenes, which is really weird considering the fact that I can read the kinkiest smut you can find without even so much as a squirm. How the hell does that even **_work_**? **fgswtff**

* * *

**Charmed**

**Chapter 9**

"_Fleur. Why do you care so much about that girl?"_

_A fluent stream of French came to her ear. Fluent, small, and young. Fleur had not needed to turn around to see who it was. Gabrielle had never been great at being inconspicuous._

"_You're being silly, Gabby. I don't know what you're talking about."_

"_You've been crying. Is it about her?"_

"_...No." Fleur's brutally blunt nature had not left much room for proficiency at lies, but even her ineptitude at deception went well over the young girl's head. The young girl trusted her sister and Fleur felt nothing short of guilty for it. Exploiting her sister's trust, Fleur was._

"_Then why won't you play with me?"_

"_I'm busy with schoolwork." Another lie._

"_You haven't touched it for the last hour."_

"_..." Too true. The quill and parchment was left so untouched, a fine layer of dust must have collected by then. _

_Fleur's graceful poise faltered into a light slump. Caught red-handed at a lie by a 7 year old. Just how long had Gabrielle been watching her? Had she been ignoring her sister all this while, or had Gabrielle grown more elusive than she had realized? But the Gabrielle nudging against the crook of her arm was the epitome of honesty. Either way, Fleur felt terrible for failing her little sister in a way that was not completely known to her._

"_...What if that girl comes play with us? Would that make you happy? I can ask Val too."_

_The small hand pointed at Hermione, who had long since fallen asleep in a stall not far from where they were. If Fleur had to venture a guess from the piles of tomes, Hermione was no doubt researching the Tasks for Harry's sake. And from the looks of the younger Delacour sibling, she was not beyond waking the brunette up for a game._

"_I'm afraid that won't be possible, Gabby."_

"_Why?"_

_Fleur scoffed at herself and at how cheesy the phrase sounded in my mind. But she went ahead and said it anyway, for it was essentially true._

"_She and her friends are busy saving the world."_

* * *

Realizing that she was no longer in a dream, Fleur grunted herself awake.

Saturday had crept up on them while they rested. But Fleur had not remained rested for long. The state of drug-less sleep was uncommon to her. She was wide awake in the dark of night, where her eyes met the utter darkness of her room. She remembered turning the light off after bed with her wand.

Her wand. Instinctively, Fleur reached towards her bedside where the nightstand lay. Her hand groped blindly until she came away with the familiar thin, long, cylindrical object. According to a clock nearby, it was 3:47 AM.

Satisfied, Fleur settled back onto Hermione's outstretched arms and nuzzled her face against the younger woman's warm, lithe body. She pulled on the covers just enough to shield them from the cold.

Fleur felt a sense of satisfying soreness emitting from where the younger woman's smaller, uncertain fingers had reached deep into and touched. Fleur had not expected Hermione to be so...skilled. It was hard to imagine the object of her infatuation as a sexual being. If Fleur had not been on the receiving end herself, she would have sworn that Hermione's claim regarding her virginity had been a lie. As if how Hermione had blushed deeply through it all wasn't enough. The sight was so adorable, Fleur was surprised that she had been able to come at all.

Hermione. Such a defenseless sleeper. It worried Fleur that she could feel Hermione's ribcage against her fingers. It killed Fleur to think that the brunette had been doing a shoddy job at taking care of herself.

Fleur's hand traveled upwards and met the brunette's mane. The Sleekeazy's Hair Potion had worn off and the brunette's locks were back to their soft, bushy state. A bushy-haired Hermione was not a beautiful Hermione, but she was still her Hermione. And her Hermione was beautiful, no matter what.

_Hers_. Aware that she was getting ahead of herself again, she sighed away the conceited sense of ownership. Hermione Jean Granger was her own woman. The Englishwoman roamed freely and did what she liked, unwaveringly passionate and brave. The same fiery Hermione had haunted Fleur's dreams when she was much younger. But Fleur then had been a mere spectator of her own dreams, a guilty voyeur as the young brunette went about some menial tasks. But be it reading or spell-casting or simply walking, Fleur had never been able to stop watching and just reach for the girl. Whenever she had tried to speak to Hermione in such a dream, she found herself unable to speak anything except in French. And even then Fleur had not gotten the girl's attention, no matter how loudly she called.

Fleur's English was much better now, but the accent remained. Lightly shrouded away like a shame-inducing object, but there nonetheless. It was obvious to anyone that she was not English. She hated that. She wanted to belong in such a way that a day without Hermione was not even in the realm of possibility.

What had happened to her? She used to feel proud to be French, with its rich wizarding history and culture. But once she had became fully aware of how much she wanted Hermione, the sense of belonging left her. Her mother had let her disapproval known. There were ways for female veelas to produce heirs, but a human female... It was a treacherous path to thread. The dangers for a human female multiplied a hundredfold. In most cases, death was almost a certainty.

Why was she feeling so anxious? After last night, the world should have appeared bright and gay.

The answer came slowly to her. It had crawled so slowly she wished it had never came at all.

Fleur was fearful to imagine a life without her. The taste of what she had longed for after all these years left her greedy for more. She had thought that her marriage to Bill was to be the end-all of her then-unattainable desire for Hermione, but she had proven herself wrong in that regard. In her bed and under her sheets was Hermione Granger. The scent of Hermione clung onto the very same fingers that had made her buckled and quivered just hours before. If Fleur had chosen to close her eyes then, she was sure to still taste Hermione on her aching tongue.

Hermione's hair was velvet against Fleur's fingers. Fleur kept her touch light. At least she thought it was light until Hermione had suddenly woken up on her.

"I remember how you used to dote on me. ...In Shell Cottage."

Fleur's hand bolted away from Hermione's mane. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"A bit. ...It doesn't matter." Hermione clung onto Fleur, eyes as serenely closed as before. "You were kind then, like how you are now. 'I was wrong about her,' I thought then."

Fleur clutched the sheets awkwardly. She was still not used to compliments from Hermione, whose reservoir for such a thing was thin. "I am not kind," she countered. "I am vain and selfish and cynical. What you used to hate about me has never left. I have just become better at hiding them."

That was when Hermione sighed into Fleur's hair. Her arm shifted around Fleur's neck, pulling her closer. "I disagree," said she. "You weren't the only one that took care of me then, but you were different. I'm daft when it comes to people, see." Hermione gave way to a small laugh. "But you cared. It was so obvious that you cared. But I didn't know why then. ...I'm sorry it took so long, Fleur."

"Apology accepted." Fleur raised her face to kiss Hermione's bare chest. "...You are very articulate for someone who had just woken up."

"And you are very blunt. I used to hate that. ...But now I know you're just honest. You don't care what people think of you. I...I don't have that kind of strength."

"...It is not strength... People would just fawn over me. I never had to care what other people thought. I never cared how it might hurt someone."

"What changed?'

"You. You walked into my life and openly hated the fact that I did not give a damn. Even Mother is not as verbal about it as you are."

"Tell me more about her."

Fleur paused to formulate her thought. "She is practical... Grounded. She is strict to me, but to Gabrielle... She spoils Gabrielle. She loves to cook and work on her garden. ...I can bet you would never guess what she does for a living."

"Not a housewife, I take it."

"No." Fleur chuckled. Somehow it felt right for Hermione to see Fleur chuckle. "She's a vault witch."

"Just like you?"

"Just like me. She is very happy that I am doing so well, so much that she has stopped asking me why I ever left Bill."

"Do you miss him?"

"...Yes. He is one of the best men I know. Mother was really happy. A vault witch and a curse-breaker. But he was not what I was looking for. My marriage... I was too late to realize that we could never be happy together...

"But enough talk. Go back to sleep."

...

It had not taken long for Hermione's breathing to become less controlled against Fleur's hair. Fleur wondered what the younger woman who was cradling Fleur in her arms was dreaming of.

Could she ever tell Hermione how hopeless and weak she felt sometimes? Would it drive her away? Would her hideous other form deter her? And the fireballs? The fireball was usually all it took to scare someone away. It scared Bill once. The brave Bill, who had fought Fenrir Greyback. The veela blood was only a quarter of her, but even that was strong enough for Fleur to take a form beyond human imagination.

Would Hermione run then, if she saw?

Only time will tell.

* * *

"Has Crookshanks eaten?"

Fleur poked her head out of the kitchen at the lack of reply and found Hermione preoccupied. In her hand was a copy of The Quibbler, held upside-down. The cover page read '_**UMBRO HORLINER – THE NEXT GRINGROTS HEIST?**' _

A tabby orange cat had curled himself at Hermione's feet, proud of his timely delivery. He promptly got up once he saw a sizable piece of mackerel in Fleur's hand. Once Fleur was sure she had gotten Crookshanks' undivided attention, she plopped the mackerel onto a bowl and laid it out for Crookshanks to feast on. She then washed her hands and went to Hermione's side.

"Can I see that, Hermione?"

"Huh. Didn't know _The Quibbler _is your cup of tea."

Fleur shook her head. "Never read it. But Umbro Horliner... I am the one in charge of his vaults."

"You mean... You got his job after his murder?"

Fleur gave the brunette a weird look. "Murder? He was not murdered."

"Well, so claims _The Quibbler_, I mean."

Fleur wrinkled her nose at the tacky magazine. "Do not believe everything you read, Hermione."

"And I don't," sputtered Hermione defensively. "It's just... I'm not so ready to believe _The Daily Prophet_ just yet... Not completely, and not so soon after the War. At least with _The Quibbler _it's easier to sort out the muck. When it's rubbish, it's _really_ rubbish. When it isn't... Well, it's hard to believe the stuff it says, but it's known to be true once in a while."

"...It says that Horliner was killed as a part of a bank heist."

"Yeah."

"And that the robbers tortured him for access to the vaults."

"Uh huh."

"...And the robbers have allied themselves with Dementors and are bringing about the rise of the next Dark Wizard as we speak."

"...Yeah, I don't believe that part either. It's _**way**_ too early for a conspiracy theory, if you ask me."

"It is almost noon."

Hermione erupted into laughter. "Exactly."

"And what is a Crumpled-Horned Snorkack?"

"Damned if I know."

"Yet you insist on reading this?"

"I've read worse. A friend of mine got me into it. Her dad's the editor. It's really odd at times, but... Look, some of the things _The Quibbler _describes are black swan events. They come as a surprise, causes a big _bang, _but once it's done and you look back... You realize that it all makes sense."

"I never took you for a conspiracy theorist before."

"I'm not! It's been so...dull...the past few years. I needed a new hobby. And Luna and Ginny were the only friends I had in my last year ...Oh, bloody hell. Don't say I've gone mental or anything, all right?"

Ah. Fleur had met Luna Lovegood. She was at her wedding, once seen twirling about right in the center of the dance floor. She was also in Fleur's former home after Harry's skirmish at the Malfoy Manor and left soon after they and Griphook had. They had not talked much, but any friend of Harry was a friend of hers.

Fleur looked at the fidgeting Hermione in her arms, indignant that she even had to defend her sensibilities. Seeing that there was no harm in it, Fleur was willing to humor Hermione. "Right. So say that Horliner was actually murdered. Why?"

Hermione pounced at the chance. "A robbery gone wrong? ...Wait. Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"This is more interesting. And it is a commissioned work. It is done when it is done."

"You would _die_ at a desk job."

To Fleur, Hermione was merely stating a fact. "Would not anyone? I wonder how you can live with being in the Magical Creatures. Law enforcement seems more like you."

"It's not _that_ bad. And it's _Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures_, mind you. And I have something I want to do before I move on. It's..."

"What is it?"

"...I can't. Ron says I talk too much about it. It's not important."

"_Hermione_," Fleur stressed. "I am not Ron. If it is something you're willing to be stuck at a desk job for, I want to hear it."

"It's S.P.E.W."

"...Spew?"

"No!" Hermione cringed. "It stands for _Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare_."

"Ah. I remember the badge. I also remember you being the only one who wore it."

Hermione glowered. "It's a lot better now. The house-elves did well for themselves during the Battle of Hogwarts. Since then it's got a lot more support. I just need to make it official with the ministry."

"How long will that take?"

"Since I'm waiting for the department evaluation in July... Yeah. Till then. I want to skive work sometimes, but I have to keep on or else they won't hear me out."

"You will be fi-"

Before Fleur could finish, a chime sounded. It came from direction of the entrance, distinct and distracting.

_Who the h__ell?_

Fleur looked at Hermione, who seemed as curious about it as she was.

Fleur stood up and tightened her powder blue bathrobe before peering through the peephole. That was when her initial annoyance faded.

"...Valerie?" gasped Fleur, throwing the door open. Sure enough, a leather-clad woman stood at her doorway. Her waist-length dark blonde hair was tucked away in a tight Dutch braid. The woman's gleaming black leather jumpsuit clung loosely on her toned body, its lack of sleeves revealed a pair of beautifully toned arms. On her feet were muggle's military combat boots, as slick and black as the rest of her outfit. Her light makeup accentuated her high-cheekbones and full lips. If it wasn't for her whimsical nature, she was the living embodiment of the best kinds of femme fatale.

"Fleur! _Ça va _?"

"_Ça va_. What brings you here? I thought you were in Spain."

"I was in town, so I thought I should stop by. It's so good to see you!" The woman squealed as she pulled Fleur into a bone-shrinking hug. The smell of leather reminded her of Bill.

"O...kay..." Fleur gave her cousin a couple of pats on the back, signaling a surrender.

It took a moment for Fleur to calm the easily excitable woman down. Hermione took this opportunity to sneak into Fleur's bedroom to change back to her work clothes. When she emerged, the two Frenchwomen were sitting on the sofa, animated in their conversation.

"Hermione." Fleur broke her stream of French to switch to English. "This is Valerie, my cousin. Val, this is -"

"Hermione Granger!" said Valerie. Her heavy, unmistakably French accent had made Fleur sound like a native by comparison. "Harry Potter's friend! You are famous, in a sense. But I have always thought you would be...prettier."

"She **is** pretty." Fleur felt a corner of her mouth twitching.

_So this is what it is like to want to kill someone_, thought the quarter veela.

Hermione was quite livid herself. She hadn't the time to fix herself all morning, sure. But to have one's flaws pointed out by a total stranger was an affront to any woman. Still, she was Fleur's cousin. Hermione saw the resemblance, somewhat. The woman was just a bit taller than Fleur, with darker hair and a slight overbite as she smiled tactlessly on in the armchair diagonal to them. She was beautiful like how all veelas were, but something about her felt off to Hermione. Her cheery exterior seemed to hide something darker. Dark, but not vile like how dark wizards were.

Even so, Hermione felt that this woman was not beyond maiming and torture. She wondered if Fleur realized this, then wondered where Crookshanks had disappeared to. Hermione needed a second opinion.

Hermione then groaned to herself. Spotting someone's overbite... Her parents would be _so_ proud.

"Uh... Nice to meet you." Somehow Hermione had managed not to unleash her murderous rage, but Fleur could have sworn then that she had felt Hermione's heated glare boring into her profile.

Tactless as Fleur was, she sensed that this surprised meeting was not going well. Valerie was making Hermione shift uncomfortably with her sweeping looks, examining the brunette haughtily like she was a bug in the jar.

"You are not affected," concluded the woman, in English.

Hermione nodded at the obviousness of the statement. "That's right."

"I am surprised, but I should have expected nothing less. Fleur_ likes_ the hunt."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "...Excuse me?"

But it seemed at Valerie felt that there was no need to answer Hermione and immediately changed topics. "Let us have lunch. You both."

"...I cannot. I have...work." It was partially true. She was never without work. And her tabletop looked unkempt enough to fool anyone else. But Valerie was not anyone else.

"Tsk, tsk." The woman rolled her eyes. "'_Work_'. You are a terrible liar, as always."

"Nonsense," said Fleur, as dismissively as she could have managed.

"So why not?"

"I...have other plans." Which was true. Fleur wanted to spend time with Hermione until either of them were too busy with work to do so.

Valerie leered at their general direction with a mild grin across her face. "With her? So what Gabrielle said is true."

Fleur's eyes narrowed considerably. "What has she been telling you?"

"Just enough." The woman turned to the brunette. "Hermione! What about you?"

The attempt to single her out prompted her to reject flatly. "I'm not going anywhere if Fleur isn't."

"I should have known. Dinner then, hmm?"

Hermione looked at Fleur. The older woman was at loss for words. Figuring the woman would not take no for an answer, she said "How about tomorrow? Dinner."

"Yes! I will meet the two of you here at 6. Fleur?"

Fleur sighed. "...Fine."

They saw the woman to the exit. That was when they saw her mounting a scarlet Yamaha YZF-R6 before pulling noisily into the empty lane. This caused Hermione to lean towards Fleur and whisper.

"Isn't she a witch?"

"She is. From my mother's side."

"So why the bike?"

"Her father is muggle-born."

"Huh." Hermione had long since given up trying to make sense of the wizarding world when it comes to its polarized fascination with non-magical objects. "To think I would have heard a bike like that from inside."

"I have a charm around the house. Keeps noise from going out and coming in. That is why the neighbors would never complain no matter how loudly you make me moan."

"...Perv."

"Funny. You were so eager about it last night," Fleur crooned. "Or would you rather I be on top this time?"

"You already have! We took turns! And your cousin just visited! What if she comes back?"

"I do not think she will be. ...And I am sure she already knows."

"**U**_gh_h**h**h_hh._.. I knew it!" Then Hermione broke her moment of realization to notice something more pressing at hand. "...F – F – F – Fleur? What are you doing?"

The quarter-veela's hands were already undoing the zippers of her black trousers, gingerly slipping it and the black cotton boxers down to her ankles. Once done, her hands traveled upwards under the fine fabric of the white buttoned shirt. Pleased to find that Hermione was not wearing the ill-fitting bra that Fleur so dreadfully hated, she gave Hermione's petite breasts a light squeeze. Cornered, the brunette had no choice but to yelp into her arm as she supported herself against cool wooden surface of the front door.

Fleur kissed one of Hermione's ear from behind before whispering "Undressing you."

"What for?"

"You are panicking for no reason. You need to be...distracted."

"That's not necessary! ...No, wait! Not at the _door_! Fleur! **NOT AT THE DOOR!**"

* * *

"Wow. Just... **_wow_**."

Fleur snickered at Hermione's elated state as the younger woman sat curled up on the sofa. "You are welcome."

Hermione sipped on her cup of warm Earl Grey before beginning again. "...How is that even possible? It _shouldn't_ be physically possible."

"Multitasking is a wonderful skill to have," Fleur mused.

Staring at the light brown liquid inside her white ceramic mug, Hermione groaned at a realization. "I shouldn't have suggested a dinner tomorrow."

"No. That was good thinking. It gives us more time to prepare."

"For what?"

"For her." Fleur paused to lay down her mug of coffee. "Hermione... I have not told anyone that I am seeing you. Not even Gabby. And Val is not the type that you can run from."

Hermione blinked at the counterintuitive sense of it all. "So how did she know?"

"She has always been...intuitive about things. But we are close and she is not the type to tell anyone else." Fleur sighed. "...But I do not know why she is here."

"What should we do?"

"Act normal. If she is up to something, she will tell us soon enough. ...I'm so sorry for this, Hermione."

"Well, I'm not entirely happy that our quiet weekend was interrupted. But that can be fixed."

Fleur noticed the sly gleam from the depth of Hermione's dark chocolate-colored eyes. "Hmm..." The silvery-blonde purred. "What do you have in mind?"

"For start... Now it is your turn."

* * *

**A wild OC appears!**

And she seems to know about Fleur and Hermione. What could she want? Find out in the next chapter!

**Dun dun _dunnnn_~**


	10. Two Idiots, One Cynic, and A Skeeter

Sorry for the delay. Uni life hasn't exactly been going well. Not to mention that my 1 TB external hard drive crashed on me last month and the draft for this chapter had made way towards data heaven. At least I'm finally 20 now. Yay much?

Now that I think about it, there are no canon first names for Mr. and Mrs. Granger. The hell?

Finals in 10 days. FML.

* * *

**Charmed**

**Chapter 10**

**Two Idiots, One Cynic, and a Skeeter**

All squeaky clean and dressed up, Hermione was ready for the dinner as she was ever going to be. She was fronting a mirror to gussy herself up before the telephone rang.

There were only two people who would contact Hermione through a land line.

"Hello, Mum."

Hermione spoke into the phone receiver with panted breath. With the all clothes piling in her bedroom, hurriedly navigating from her bedroom to the kitchen counter proved to be almost life-threatening.

Sure enough, it was her mother. "You finally answered your phone for once, young lady."

"Witches don't usually use phones, Mum," replied Hermione. "How are you?"

That got her mother laughing. "I'm fine, your father's fine, the clinic's fine. You're the child here. No need to fuss," her mother teased. "Have you been eating well?"

Hermione grinned proudly to herself, like a child who had just finished a plate-full of vegetables. "Yes. I've been eating proper meals and everything."

"Well, that's a surprise." The elder Granger woman faked a gasp. "Someone must be force feeding you."

"…Something like that." Hermione paused, adjusting her hair guiltily. Without Fleur's constant reminder, Hermione might have forgotten to eat her meals entirely. "Actually, I met someone a bit back."

"And you didn't call home squealing about it? Tsk tsk."

Hermione groaned into the plastic receiver. "You know I'd never do that, Mum. The squealing bit, I mean."

"And you're happy? It sounds like he's taking good care of you."

Hermione suppressed an overwhelming urge to correct her mother. To tell her that her little girl was seeing a woman. A woman who, to be completely honest, wasn't completely human. But that heavy of a topic was hardly proper for a phone conversation. Her parents deserved better. After all that she had put them through, of course they did. Instead, she forced out "That's right. I'm on my way to his place right now."

"When will I get to see him?"

"Mum! We just started going out! And I have to go right now. I'm running late."

"So do I. I have to close up the office. Your father really should learn how to cook by this point. It doesn't take a genius to do it. To think that we're both doctors, with LDS certificates and everything."

"You know no one can beat your cooking."

"Oh, one shouldn't be so smug. But I'd like to think that my cooking _is_ pretty darn good. Now, run along to your boyfriend."

"Alright, Mum. Sorry I can't stay and talk. And I'll try to come home more often."

"Don't worry too much about it. Just focus on what needs to be done." Then her tone grew more serious. "I know you'll do the right thing, darling. You always do."

"Thanks, mum. Take care. Love you."

"Love you too, darling."

One day, she would go back home and have a proper talk with them. About Fleur, about herself. One day.

* * *

Valerie's eyes had the tendencies to wander out of paranoia. An occupational hazard, really. She knew better than to be sitting at a wall seat, at a table slightly off-center to the entrance. The restaurant, after all, was Muggle-own and any willy-nilly attempt at her life by her 'colleagues' would be well-met by the Ministry's finest.

Suddenly, a man appeared. His broad shoulders blocked Valerie's view to the entrance.

Valerie curtly shot at the man. "Sorry, but I am waiting for someone."

The muggle man retreated quickly, but with an unfocused, Veela-thralled look in his eyes. He was leaving only for a chance to strike again, no doubt. His poise as he leaned against the bar counter not-so-subtly alluded to his persistent nature. Under other circumstances she might have not so openly glared at the man. She might even have obliged herself. The fact that one never ran out of bed warmers was one of the advantages of being part-Veela. And Valerie certainly took her share of bed warmers, being a healthy adult that she was. They were there. She was free. So why not?

She tried to let Fleur in on this little 'fun', in hope that it will loosen the stick her cousin had jammed in tightly into her rear. No such luck, of course. It was a surprise to her that Fleur was even in some sort of intimate relationship with someone at this point, especially with someone so plain.

Then again, Fleur had always seemed to be waiting for someone. Even during her marriage with that Weasley man she had seemed to still be waiting. No wonder Fleur had seemed different to Valerie when she saw her cousin again. Gone was the foggy, far-gone look in her eyes.

Hermione Granger. What a drab little girl she was. It made Valerie groaned to think that the goody-two shoe was the one Fleur had been waiting for.

"_Speak of the Devil. There they are."_

* * *

Fleur threw a sidelong glance towards the wooden bar counter, over the swooned man with an intense case of rape eyes aimed towards Valerie. "A restaurant with a bar area," said Fleur, smirking. "I should have figured as much."

Valerie raised her glass of Southern Comfort over the rocks. "Why deny yourself the little pleasures in life? But before we order food, spirits!"

A waiter came swooping at the French dark-blonde's beckon, notepad and menus at the ready. "Would you like something, Hermione?" The thick French accent rolled from Valerie's tongue inhibited. In her mind, Hermione had bet a pound against herself that it wasn't Valerie's first glass.

"Um…" Hermione looked at Fleur, who gave her a vague look that said 'Just go along with it'. She fingered the alcoholic beverages section of the menu for a moment. "…I guess I'll have a pint of Guinness."

"Fleur?"

Fleur fortified herself. "A glass of Noilly Prat. That. Is. All."

Valerie visibly pouted. "I know you can drink more."

"Yes, but someone has got to carry you home."

Once their drink orders were settled, they quickly placed their order for food. The waiter dismissed himself quickly.

"Do not tell me you came all this way to London just to get some bourbon."

Valerie snickered. "Of course not." She then turned to Hermione, eyes glinted with bourbon and conspiracy. "Is she this grouchy in bed?"

Hermione's mouth gaped in shock. _Wait, what?_

Fleur quickly responded, her face stoical. "If you were that curious, you would have already found out."

"It _is_ what I do best." Valerie smirked, cradling her half-filled glass.

Hermione watched the interaction between cousins in disbelief. They acted as if a landmine had not been dropped just mere seconds ago. Rather, it was as if the cousins had put a picnic blanket right over the landmine and decided to stop for a cup of tea and share a quick skim-through of their sexual 'adventures'.

But Fleur seemed to be used to this kind of glib from her cousin. They were cousins, after all. And close ones at that. Between the two, the conversation never missed a beat. "So why leave the lucrative market in Spain to come here?"

Valerie's face quickly turned prim and businesslike. Hermione's first impression of the woman was back again. She had that grim glint behind her dark eyes, the kind that would not hesitate to put a second curse on a dying man. Her gut feeling told her to never make this woman mad. At this point, her gut was just stating the obvious.

"I'm here to warn your girlfriend. Someone in London is doing some 'unpleasant business' for Rita Skeeter."

This tidbit of information made Hermione's blood chill. A corner of Hermione's eye twitched at the woman's name, wiping away her previous sense of awkwardness. She knew the journalist was bound to come looking for revenge eventually. "Anything she does is unpleasant." gritted Hermione.

"Of course," said Valerie matter-of-factly. "I hear you two have been at each other's throat for a while."

Fleur frowned. Rita Skeeter was nothing but trouble for everyone. Just a mention of her upsets Hermione. Fleur reached towards Hermione, her hand covering Hermione's tightly curled knuckles. Angry? Annoyed? Fleur wasn't sure. An enraged Hermione was not something Fleur wanted to get used to. But she knew this problem had to go. "What is she up to?"

"She wants a round of mudslinging. But not her usual, nonsensical kind. She wants something that _hurts_."

Fleur grew curious. "How are you so sure?"

"My 'colleagues' like to boast. That unpleasant woman paid quite a large sum, so this information had reached many ears. I had a feeling that Fleur was caught up in it somehow, so I came here. According to Gabby, you two made contact."

Fleur felt Hermione's inquisitive look settling on her. "I told her that we met again. I did not mention us after."

"Gabby is a smart girl. She figured something has happened and brought it to my attention. You _did_ sound unusually happy."

Hermione's temper only kept soaring. "If that bitch wants me, she can come and get it. But Fleur's got nothing to do with this."

"But you love her, yes?"

Unable to restrain her anger, Hermione glared. "Of course I do."

Valerie smiled grimly. "Then she has everything to do with it. That is why I'm here."

Hermione's slumped ever so slightly, resigned to a special kind of guilt. Because of her, Skeeter had the power to rope Fleur into this sick revenge plot. Their dinner arrived, but neither Fleur nor Hermione felt inclined to indulge themselves. Their mouths felt dry and tasted of bile.

Still not touching her food, Hermione said "So you're here to protect Fleur?"

Valerie seemed as if she had been waiting for that line and frowned openly at it. "That unpleasant woman wants an expose. The relationship between you two is the perfect fuel for her."

"I'm not ashamed of anything I have with Fleur."

Valerie chided her for missing the point. "The point is to not give her anything she can use against you."

"Just in case she twists it out of proportion?"

"Exactly. And do not say it like you do not know it already. It _will _change things. She can easily brand you two as deviants and it will be over. Career, family, people. And she won't stop at just that. She will ruin you."

"Let her try! I don't intend to hide!"

"Are you going to make it easier for her instead? That is _**exactly**_ what you are doing."

As much as Hermione hated to admit it, Valerie was right. It grew harder to tell if the woman was there to warn them or provoke her.

"We can tell the Ministry than she's an Unregistered Animagus," suggested Hermione. The punishment for being Unregistered was a trip to a cozy little island called Azkaban, after all.

Valerie, of course, had considered this. "She registered recently. 4 months ago. Of course, bribery was involved. Apparently she's looking into other lines of work."

"Pfft. 'Work'. Some other lines of drivel, more like."

Valerie seemed to agree. "Biographies, technically. But, yes, drivel. She would not come after you unprepared."

Fleur endearingly adopted a one-tracked mind and interjected to get the conversation on-topic. "What can we do?"

Valerie counted the ways with her slim, primly manicured fingers. "Do not meet each other in public… Do not be affectionate in public."

"We do not do that to begin with," retorted Fleur.

Valerie seemed amused by this. Motioning downwards to under the table, she said "Why are you still holding her hand, then?"

Fleur's face tightened. The gentle rubbing of Fleur's thumb along Hermione's paled knuckles stopped dead.

"Hermione." Valerie finished the last of the bourbon. She set down the glass with an uncharacteristic calmness, and by that alone she seemed to turn the restaurant a degree lower. Hermione shifted uncomfortably at being directly addressed. When her gaze rose to meet Valerie's, she saw bared teeth. That enraged animalistic smile, it was only for Hermione alone. It was beyond reasonable doubt that this woman was telling her all of this not for her sake. "If anything happens to Fleur because of you, I am holding you responsible."

If wasn't as if Hermione had not seen this coming. After all, she was the source of this problem. She was the one who had not ended it while she could. Crushing the transformed Rita Skeeter at that time would have been so easy. It would have been low of her, to stoop to murder. Yet morality prevailed and she chose not to. Nonetheless, the words had hurt. They were so full of blame, of hate. She was accustomed to being disliked, to not quite fit in anywhere, but never full blown hate.

If only she could change it all.

"**Valerie!**" hissed Fleur.

But Valerie flipped the table, addressing Fleur now. In a fluent stream of French, she asked "_Do you still insist on being with her? Rita Skeeter has a score to settle with her._"

"_Enough! That's precisely why I have to be with her!_"

"_And play the hero, dear cousin? I've always taken you for a romantic, but this is absurd."_

"_I love her. Just how clear do I have to be?"_

"_But does she love you? As much as you do her?_"

This prompted Fleur to pause. How Valerie had implied manipulation on Hermione's part enraged her. There were times when Hermione's eyes flitted with uncertainty of what to come, but never deception. In fact, Hermione's insistence on absolute transparency regarding their relationship bordered on suicide. It was as if self-preservation had never crossed the brunette's mind.

Finding herself at a sudden bout of peace, she could not suppress happiness from her face. The answer that Valerie sought from Fleur had been there all along, clear as day. "…Yes. Yes, she does."

"Hermione. Do you love Fleur?"

"Yes," retorted Hermione, having had just about enough of Valerie's gall. The pint of foamy stout, now empty, was also working its effects on her empty stomach. "Just what kind of **stupid** _are_ you to even _have_ to _**ask**_me that?"

Stripped of the previous icy façade, Valerie's face fell into her waiting palms. She groaned loudly into it, causing several heads to turn towards their direction. But, in their own separate world, they cared not for the curious glances. Finally, the dirty blonde broke her stream of verbal frustration and said "_Merde_… I give up. You two really are a cheesy pair of idiots."

Hermione took in the remark with much amusement. "Idiots, are we? How cynical," she mocked.

Fleur nodded at Hermione's insistence. "And possibly bitter."

Valerie winced. "Stop tag-teaming me. Let us eat. The food is cold."

* * *

The three women parted soon after eleven. Back at Fleur's place, Hermione and Fleur slumped into the sofa as soon as they arrived.

Scooping Hermione into her arms, Fleur groaned. "What a day."

Hermione had other things besides complaints in mind. "Fleur… I'm…I'm really sorry."

"Hermione." The silver-blonde whispered into Hermione's locks. "It is not your fault."

Hermione stared into the darkness of Fleur's living room, barely suppressing her tears. "This shouldn't happen. I don't know why she's coming after me now. I thought I had made sure that she'll leave me alone."

Cradling Hermione gently, Fleur then whispered the purest truth. "No matter what happens, we will be OK."


	11. A Day in the Life of Fleur Delacour

**I'm not dead!**** YAY!**

Apologies for the lack of updates. It's been a hectic year in general. I swore to myself I'd crank a new chapter out before my birthday, so here I am! Enjoy! :D

* * *

**Chapter 11**

A Day in the Life of Fleur Delacour

It was still dark when Fleur rose from the bed. _Their_ bed. Considering the fact that Hermione still lay curled on her bed under the wine-colored blanket, it may as well be considered as such.

She reached to touch her lover and found her flesh bare and cold. "It seems I have hogged the blanket again," muttered Fleur. "Fair is fair. I am nearly falling off the bed."

She summoned her wand and waved a nonverbal command. The sleek fabric peeled itself off Fleur and draped across Hermione's bare form. Fleur reached to check again and felt glad to find her lover warming up. She planted a firm kiss on Hermione's temple and stood up. She summoned her bathrobe from the darkness of the room. The fine-threaded fabric proceeded to cover her, one sleeve at the time. Wand firmly in hand, she slipped out of the bedroom gingerly and waved on the lights.

Fleur stared at her work desk with a slight sense of dread. Her work desk was filled with spare inkwells and tombs and parchments, more than half of which were filled with notation about hexes and anti-theft spells.

_If not more sleep was to be had tonight, then at least some work was going to get done_, she drilled into herself.

Just the mere action of her sitting on the chair sent everything scattering to life. A cap popped open and a quill dipped into the inkwell. An empty parchment unfurled before her. The motions were hectic, yet noiseless. Everything was ready faster than Fleur could settle into the chair and say "newts". She had Hermione to thank for the charm. Perhaps a kiss as thanks? Maybe later, once she rose for work.

Fleur began her note with a diagram of the vault's inner workings, adding notations about renovations, illusions, and spikes. Real spikes, her quill added as it sounded her thoughts. Whatever was in the vault, through the dragons, 16 different hexes, a charmed box and many of its illusionary replicates, and now additional mazes and spikes, must be quite precious. Then again, it was not her business to know the details about the treasure itself, just the things that are likely to kill the thieves along the way to it.

The notes from her former colleges aren't of much help. She had tried to peruse through them before, with no great success. The general details were written simply, in plain English meant for simply anyone to understand. The deeper details of a more classified type were coded and the general theme of the code seemed to revolve around watching and being watched.

"What in Merlin's trunk is a 'CCTV'?" Fleur furrowed her brows.

She summoned a tome concerning hexes and searched for the word through the glossary. Nothing. Through another, now about charms, and still nothing even remotely related to the word came up.

Fleur sighed. She added a note to herself. "This man clearly had not intended to die so soon. Otherwise his notes would have some kind of a cypher attached," wrote her quill. "That would make my life_ much_ easier."

A voice came from the bedroom. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, _ma chérie_," Fleur called, turning in her chair. "Right here."

Warmth came and enveloped her from behind. Hermione snuggled close to her ear, lips brushing playfully at it. "The bed is cold without you," she whispered, her breath minty from the morning brush. Leave it to a dentist's daughter to brush her teeth first thing in the morning.

Fleur patted her lap and Hermione promptly took her place on Fleur's firm legs. She hugged the younger woman close, her head light with happiness.

"What do you want to do, now that you are awake?" Fleur said into Hermione's hair.

"Hmm…" Hermione began groggily. "Some food first, then some intimate time in the shower."

Fleur wasn't sure if the thudding feeling she felt in her chest was her own or Hermione's. Nevertheless, she ran her hand along Hermione's bare thigh and teased her way up Hermione's parted legs. The dripping wetness she found near her lover's folds made something inside her stir.

Fleur smiled into the younger woman's hair. "How about we go shower now?"

* * *

"Harry! Ron! Welcome."

Before her stood Harry and Ron, who both shifted uncomfortably in their clothes from the warming afternoon weather. Ron mumbled into his hand-knit scarf, undoubtedly another one of Molly Weasley's handiworks. "Hope we're not disturbing or anything."

Fleur motioned her wand to lock the bedroom door, where Hermione's belongings were likely to be found, and stepped aside from the door. She took turns to kiss their cheeks as they step in. "No such thing, Ron. Harry. Come on in. Tea?"

"Tea?" Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Gone native, have you? Have you got bickies with that?"

Fleur found it hard to not like Ron's ability to feel right at home anywhere. "I only have Earl Grey. And no, sadly."

"We're here for a job, Ron," said Harry, settling onto the sofa, before further remarking "…Not that tea wouldn't be lovely."

Fleur was already waving her kettle ready for the stove and preparing the cups. "Please. It is not often I get to see old friends. Sit down."

Harry smiled while trying his best to keep his professional composure. "We're here on Ministry business, actually."

"I heard. Is this regarding Umbro Horliner?

"Yes, actually. We heard that you had decided to take on one of his vaults."

"Five of them," Fleur corrected. "All high-security."

Ron briefly glanced at his notepad before motioning this information in with his wand.

Fleur waved her wand again towards the kitchen. "But one does stand out in particular, so you are not wrong in that sense."

"Is there anything you can tell us about that vault's contents? Aside from the box that it came with. Gringotts has already informed us about that."

Three cups of tea emerged from the kitchen before placing themselves before the three. "I am afraid I cannot tell you anything specific about the vault's contents. Only Mr. Horliner knew and he was bound a magical contract to never speak of it until the vault is to be passed to someone else."

Ron's frowned. "And he never got to do the last part."

"Yes. So I do not know what is in it."

Harry stirred his tea. "That's fair. So might you know if whatever's in the vault is important? Important enough to kill someone over?"

"Considering the security measures, it must be pretty important."

"Are you also contractually bound to not speak of it?"

"Yes. And I would rather not have some goblins come after me with Merlin-knows-what, if you two do not mind."

"Well, technically you can't _speak_ of it. The spell doesn't really dictate that you can't write it down."

"Nice magical loophole," grinned Harry.

Fleur's eyes narrowed at the two Aurors. "I hope you two do not have any funny ideas about breaking into another vault."

Ron laughed. "Oh, no. Of course not. We're Aurors now. And we're not tracking down a no-nosed dark lord's soul so we can destroy it this time around."

Harry snickered at this, before correcting himself. "But we have reasons to believe that the man that we have arrested for Mr. Horliner's murder might have an accomplice."

"Oh?"

"Aye," added Ron, who was already sipping his tea. "'Cause the man isn't nearly smart enough to plan something like a murder. Just a hired wand to get information."

Fleur glanced at her work desk, where the majority of her work lay. "Do you two believe that the vault might be compromised?"

Harry shook his head. "We have no reason to believe so. But someone is still out there and they might still be trying to get to whatever is in the vault through getting to a curse maker. Has Gringotts informed the vault's owner?"

"I have been told that we have tried, but he could not be reached," said Fleur. "I would like to talk to him myself. He should know about something like this."

Ron groaned. "Goblins sure are comforting in that regard, aren't they? A constant pissing match between us and the lot. Last few weeks has been pretty much a 'No, we can't tell you the owner's name. Bugger off, damn Aurors'. I don't know how you can work with them."

A power struggle with goblins was something Fleur could relate to personally. She laughed at Ron's open frustration and remarked: "I work from home, that is how. Else I would be driven insane."

Harry grinned, knowing full well how frustrating dealing with goblins can be. "Speaking of which, why don't you live in a wizarding neighborhood? You would be far safer. This is a muggle one, as far as I can tell."

Fleur stared at her tea for a moment. The steam proved to be fairly soothing. "I had tried that for a period of time and decided that I did not like it," she remarked. "You two should understand this better than anyone. After the Triwizard Tournament and my small part in the War, I just want to be left alone and not have anyone ask me anything about anything. Just alone and anonymous."

Ron shrugged. "I don't mind the attention from time to time. It's a nice ego boost."

It seemed as if Harry was trying his best not to roll his eyes. "Just admit it, Ron. You love it."

"Maybe a little." Ron shrugged again, meekly. "Hermione feels differently. Likes her privacy and all that. She lives around here too, I heard."

Fleur stiffened. She glanced at Harry and found him as surprised as she was to hear Ron mention Hermione. "Yes, she does."

"Do you see her around often, then? How is she doing?"

"She looks well whenever I see her." Which, Fleur graciously omitted, is quite often. "Are you worried?"

"Sure. She's still a friend, even after we broke up."

Harry quipped. "Like I said before, just talk to her."

"And say what? 'I'm sorry for having been such a dickish boyfriend?'" Ron groaned into his open hands. "I don't think she'd like to see my mug much."

Fleur kept quiet. Ron hadn't been appearing as a subject of conversation between her and Hermione. It wasn't entirely clear how Hermione felt about Ron now. Full of animosity? As a friend? Or was there still something lingering in Hermione's mind in regards to Ron? As a friend, Hermione and Ron mending their friendships was a welcomed prospect. But as Hermione's lover, Fleur felt jealousy clawing its way into her mind and felt petty for it.

Ron snapped out of the topic on his own. "Say, Fleur. How have you been? Mum misses you during family dinners."

"I have been fine. And it is not like I can show up there… After the divorce."

Harry frowned, but left the topic alone for Ron to continue.

"I know. But Bill hasn't been coming around the house lately. I'm not totally happy about you two splitting just like that either…" Ron rubbed his nose crudely, restraining himself from speaking out the rest of his thoughts. "Still, it's just a little different without you around. It'd just be nice to have everyone together just like old times again. We should hang on to whoever we still have with us, right?"

Harry seemed to agree at this. "Ron's got a point, Fleur. It's really not the same without you."

Fleur smiled, her heart warmed. This was as straightforward as she was going to get from the young Weasley. She beamed at Ron like family no longer in name, but still in heart. "You are right, Ron. The next chance I get. I promise."

* * *

Fleur got up from her desk to greet Hermione with a kiss. "I missed you. And Harry and Ron came over today."

"I missed you too. For their investigation?"

Fleur nodded.

The younger woman tensed in her arms. "Is something wrong? Are you in some kind of danger?"

"The man who murdered Mr. Horliner might have an accomplice. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that all this involves one of the vaults somehow. …Don't frown like that." Fleur kissed between Hermione's furrowed eyebrows, soothing her worry. "But that is not why I mentioned this. Ron asked me about you."

"Oh? And?"

"That is pretty much the most of it. He wondered how you are doing."

Hermione scoffed. "If he's that worried, he can just come to my desk and ask. We do work in the same place."

"He is probably too scared to," Fleur offered, not purely out of speculation. Hermione was a formidable witch, the kind that one would get an unshakable urge to run away from during the type's angry outbreak.

Hermione seemed amused. "Scared of me, a desk clerk?"

"And possibly the brightest witch I know."

"Now you're just flattering me." Flattery or not, it indeed was working. The younger woman, previously riled up by the topic, seemed to calm down right before her.

Fleur kissed her lover's nose gingerly. "I am not the flattering type. You know me."

"And you don't feel threatened in any way that an ex of mine is concerned for me? And asked you, my lover, about me?"

Fleur grimaced at Hermione's surprising directness. "Of course I am. But I want to think better of Ron, that he is not such a petty man to let this come between your friendships. Besides, he does not appear to know about us. If he is keen on repairing your friendship with him, then I do not want to keep you away from an old friend."

"Very sweet of you." Hermione held Fleur close. Fleur savored the innocent warmth. "I'll talk to him once I get the chance. But if he tries anything funny, I promise I will shoot him down."

Fleur chuckled. "If he _does_ try anything funny, I hope you will."

They laughed the topic aside and began the preparation of their meal. They would typically eat out on such a day, but it was Hermione who insisted on eating in. Perhaps the younger woman, too, felt the urgency of Valerie's caution. Even so, Valerie had been tactless in terms of confronting Hermione yesterday.

Digging her fork into the cheese omelet prepared by Hermione's spell work, Fleur watched her lover. Hermione seemed work-worn, but not unhappy. Her eating manner was one of enthusiasm, which was a welcomed change by both. Perhaps Fleur was worrying too much about too many things. Rita Skeeter, work, Umbro Horliner, and now Ron. For some unknown reasons, many things were entering their lives all at once.

'We'll get through this,' Fleur coaxed herself back to a state of calmness and focused instead on the omelet.

* * *

...

The graveyard was dark and cold, but Valerie cared not. She was knelt before a particular tombstone, its sculpting simple by design and the soil underneath freshly turned and barren of grass. In her hand was single flower, a purple iris with two blade-shaped foliage.

"I apologize, sir. I should have come sooner. …I should have just came England after graduation. I should have never left."

Valerie's jaw tightened at her words, distraught that she had just offered such a personal sentiment to a dead man. She knew fully that no words of apologies or regret would bring him back and soon felt foolish.

Instead of words of more regret, she said: "I know you are there."

And indeed someone was. A cloaked figure stepped into view from behind a tree's shadow. Valerie stood and stared right at the man just mere twenty steps before her.

"I see you are still going with the whole 'Man in the Iron Mask' look."

Iron creaked as he talked. "And I see that immigration has been loose, considering a half-assed information broker like you are crawling about on English soil."

Valerie scoffed. "Witches are not bound by some trivial muggle laws."

The cloak shifted as the man seemed to shrug. "Eh. Muggle, mudblood. Close enough."

An angry Veela was not a sight to behold. The beak and the pair of scaled wings only told half of the story. The single most terrifying thing about a Veela was the fireballs, scorching and terrible in its destruction. Valerie's own fireballs had already burned through her thick motorcycle glove, slowly taking form.

"**Don't. You. Insult. **_**MY FAMILY!**_"

The loudness of Valerie's roar proved to be nowhere as penetrating as the roar of the flames as they zoomed from her hands. But damaging as they were, they simply rebounded against the hooded man's cloak. The returned fireballs hit Valerie squarely in the chest and tore through her Shield Charm. The transformed Veela was sent flying.

Iron creaked as an obscene laughter sounded across the graveyard. The man's cloak flashed blue from where the fireballs had hit. "And the monster reveals her true colors! I never knew what he saw in you, the dumb bastard."

Valerie pulled her wand from her torn leather suit and staggered to her feet. Pure anger had numbed her to the pain and her slowly leaking life. The pair of beaks gritted, slowly croaking out: "That 'dumb bastard' was your father, Marc Horliner."

The man called Marc shook his head in feigned sadness. "Not anymore."

In the cloaked man's hand was a wand. It pointed squarely at her. With her Shield Charm torn to shreds, Valerie acted with her final once of desperation and closed her eyes. She thought hard of Fleur.

Before the spell had made contact with her, she was gone with a pop.

* * *

The faint pop and a thud sent Fleur bolting from Hermione's lap. The older woman readied her wand and aimed at the intruder. But what she found on the floor was not what she was expecting. One, she had expected a human and not a scaled, bird-human form she knew all too well. Two, Fleur had not expected blood. Then the scorched marks and the smell of charred flesh hit Fleur and filled her gut with dread.

From the crumpled form, a familiar voice greeted her. "I knew you two would still be awake."

Fleur saw Hermione's wand hand held steady, even at such a sight. She had not expected anything different from her war-hardened lover. But this was not a moment for steeled determination to blast the intruder aside. She gently touched her lover's wrist and brought the wand's tip down. "I know you are surprised, but she is not an enemy."

To show this, Fleur cast _Vulnera Sanentur_ the form. At first-cast, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. She turned back to Hermione with a grim sense of determination. "If you can find some dittany from my trunk, that would be wonderful."

Hermione's eyes held questions, but she promptly nodded and readied her wand at the large trunk by Fleur's work desk. "_Accio, dittany_."

Fleur knelt by the form and cast another helping of _Vulnera Sanentur_. "What happened, Valerie? Who did this?"

Valerie's beak quivered as she replied faintly. "I got my fireballs handed to me."

Hermione uncorked the essence of dittany and handed the bottle to Fleur, who applied a few drops over the freshly mended wound. The younger woman watched Fleur intently, making sense of what was unfolding before her. The smell of blood made it tough for her as clear thoughts was being clouded by unpleasant memories of a time wished gone.

Valerie turned her head to face Hermione. "Do you know what this is?"

Fleur shot her cousin down instantly. "This is not the time or the place."

"It is now or never, dear cousin." Valerie barked back, spurred on by pain. "If she does love you, she deserves to know."

"A Veela transformation," came Hermione's matter of fact reply.

Valerie seemed to nod. "Does this terrify you, Ms. Granger? Do you want to run?"

Hermione sighed before placing her hand on Valerie's scaled shoulder, just before where a wing grew. "I don't care about any of that. Just stop talking and save your strength. You still need to rest."

Hermione could feel the scales shifting and retracting. The beaks, to, seems to slowly change into a more human countenance. The pair of now more human lips seemed to smile before them.

Before Valerie's consciousness completely faded, she uttered "_Cousine… __Je me suis trompé .__J'approuve__…_"

* * *

Hermione now obtains Valerie's Seal of Approval! -Fanfares-


	12. Reunion

**Chapter 12**

**Reunion**

Fleur found Hermione hovering over the spot previously marked red. Her gaze seemed to remain there despite Fleur's voice breaking the grim silence. Her expression was still, eerily so. Only Fleur's touch managed to prompt a response from her. She jerked in surprise at first, her private thoughts derailed. She then clasped her own hands around Fleur's, perhaps to provide comfort in the midst of this twisted predicament.

She met Fleur's eyes, her face easing. "Valerie?"

"Her skin has just finished healing. I have applied balms to lessen the pain." Fleur's shoulders seemed to have sunk. "She has lost a lot of blood."

Seeing Fleur's sunken expression, Hermione urged. "We should sit down." With a gentle pull of the hand, she directed the older woman towards the sofa. Towards her body. Fleur slumped into her chest head-first. Hermione coaxed a sigh out of her lover. "Tired?"

"Yes. But I do not think I can sleep just yet." Despite the late hours into the night and a weary edge to Fleur's voice, she was still very much alert. "We should call someone. Aurors, perhaps. I do not trust myself to do the right thing right now."

Hermione's embrace tightened. "I know exactly who to get. For now, be patient. She's not conscious yet. We can't do much tonight except for taking care of her and waiting for her to wake up."

Fleur sank into her, the thoughts of bolting to the Ministry in the middle of the night having been left for the time being. She welcomed the warmth. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow," she agreed. "I'll head out and get in touch with Harry and Ron. They have proper authority. If there's a way to get to whoever did this without breaking laws, this is the way."

At that moment, all the tightly held composure seemed to crumble. Laws held little meaning for Fleur tonight. She wanted to just march out there and… And what? Maim? Kill? Torture? Anger and despair flooded her. She felt out of her own skin, stuck with a stranger's most forbidden thoughts. This wasn't her. What happened to Valerie tonight shouldn't have happened. It all seemed so sudden, so much, and all the while so unfair. She wanted blood. And during this bloodlust Hermione held her. Reassuring mutters came as emotions sought to sink her. For every angry word Fleur had, Hermione had those of grim calmness to salvage her sanity.

What was left of the night, Hermione spent unrelenting till there were no more anger and tears left in her lover. Soon Fleur fell into an unwilling sleep against Hermione's arms, exhausted from offering her emotions to the world. Hermione cradled her still, soothing her dreams.

A whisper touched Fleur's resting ear. "When the dawn breaks, we'll figure this out."

* * *

It was morning when Hermione roused from the sofa to check up on Valerie. Imagine her surprise when she found the wounded woman not still prone on the bed, but seated on the bed of her bed. She calmly met Hermione's shocked face and offered a weak "good morning".

Hermione stared her down. "You need to rest."

"My body agrees with you, but…" She stopped to consider it in her mind first, but decided to hell with it. "I need you to do something for me."

Hermione nodded slowly, unsure of what to expect. "I'm listening."

"First… Have you any bourbon?"

Hermione grimaced, debating within herself whether to take the request seriously. "You're hardly in a state to be drinking."

"It helps with the pain. Just a small bit."

Hermione sighed. "I'll see what I can do. Anything else? You know, while you want me to hunt for an open liquor store at 7 in the morning."

Valerie's expression grew more serious now. "We need to get it touch with Aurors."

Hermione grimly nodded. "If they're not aware of it already."

"Have they shown up?"

Hermione half-expected them to barge through the door through the night, but no. Not a peep. Not a sound. It was surprising to think that the alerts had not gone off by now, but there they were. In Fleur's house with nary an Auror investigating the storm out of the place. At least she saw it as a sign that Valerie was not in serious trouble. "Not yet."

Valerie shook her head sadly. "Then they probably won't, which is why I'm asking you this. Can you get in touch with some old friends?"

Old friends in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. _Old friends._ It was starting to connect in her mind now. "You want me to ask Harry and Ron."

"Yep. And if you're wondering why they would leave their desk for this, tell them that I have crucial information regarding a current case they're working on."

"I was planning to go to them to begin with." Hermione then groaned when a thought occurred to her. "But, really, you should have gone straight to the authorities in the first place. Why now?"

"I wasn't sure of it. Not until last night." Valerie's voice was soft.

Hermione sighed, knowing better than to push it. "Rest for now. I'll get Fleur."

Valerie settled back into the bed, nodding gratefully. "Thanks."

* * *

For what was not the first or the last, Hermione went out and sought to do what she ought not to. Bravery, they called it. Yet Hermione recognized for what it was: A foolhardy thing. Painful, even. Yet, all the while, a necessary thing to be done. Whatever reservations she had regarding Ron was her own business. This was bigger than her.

She gathered her breath and pushed the number 2 on the service lift instead of the usual 4. It felt odd for her, a now responsible adult 20 years of age, to be playing hooky. But she hadn't the time to dwell on it much as the view of the bustling Atrium zipped by.

Past the grate, she was greeted with the large "DMLE" emblem of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The noise and the eternally stretching spans of cubicles assaulted her senses. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was by no means small, but it had nothing on the urgency she was witnessing. People and papers alike were rushing about, zooming mid-air at a pace that defied even conventional magical safety.

"Stilton! The documents you sent me are crumpled! **Crumpled!**" came a distressed hollering from a nearby cubicle. A stocky older man with ruffled salt-and-pepper hair, mutton chops, and 7/8 of a nose had emerged out of his cubicle with his fist waved towards the far end of the row.

"Um… Hello? Sir?" Hermione waved to gain his attention.

"Hmph?" The man turned and his crumpled face unfurled in bewilderment. "Ain't this a rare sight. Hello there, lass. What brings you up here?"

"I need to speak to Aurors Harry Potter and Ron Weasley."

He scratched his double chin. "Well, the Auror Office is off-limits to non-personnel normally. Can't make an exception for even Miss Hermione Granger." He gave Hermione a quick once-over. The tight smile and the worn-out eyes had not gone unnoticed. His lips crooked in thought. "…But I can pass them a message here, if you'd like."

"That'll be great, thank you." Hermione considered how to best get their attention. "This is Hermione. Meeting at Fleur's house ASAP. Possible informant attacked, needs investigation."

The man took a moment to talk into the brass pipe near his desk. After an "uh huh" and an "hm", he faced her. "They're coming down. You're not in trouble or something, are you?"

"No. But I'll need their help on this. It's strictly business, really."

The man took a moment to note her tired state. Hermione Granger had the reputation around the Ministry as being bright and, behind her back, "eerily unflappable". To see her here, before him, with those adrenaline eyes, he got the notion that something serious was afoot. "Well… You're as much of a veteran as me." He pointed at his almost-whole nose like it was a badge of pride. "Whatever it is, stay safe."

Hermione nodded gratefully at the man and headed for the nearest floo chimney.

* * *

Harry and Ron steadied themselves as the green smoked cleared. They were greeted by the sight of what was now clearly a wizarding living room. The coffee table had been set aside to make room for the steadily bubbling caldron. The sofas were lined with haphazardly opened tombs. The first smell that hit Ron was that of a strong cleaning formula, the kind that his own mother would brew for the kind of post-party industrial-grade cleanup that typical house-hold spells can't cover for. To Ron that meant it was either, one, lots of blood or, two, Fred and George.

Hermione was at a nearby desk, still in her coat and looking very much displeased. She got up, then frowned at the sight of the clutter. She sighed and began waving the tombs back into place. "Ignore the mess. It's been a busy night."

Fleur peaked out from the kitchen. "Harry! Ron!"

If Ron had to be honest, he would have to admit that the two women looked equally worse for wear. She came over and greeted them with kisses to their cheeks. "Thank you for coming. The kettle just got on. Would you like some tea?"

Harry began. "That's kind of you, but we want to head back to the case as – He stopped short and casted his partner a bewildered glance. Ron had nudged him, rather roughly so.

"Tea would be lovely," the red-haired man finished for his partner.

"You know we have got work to do," admonished Harry.

Ron rolled his eyes. "And with what I know you have in mind when it comes to procedure, I also know that it's going to be a while. You can't honestly expect me to sit on my arse without tea through it all."

Harry rolled his eyes. To Hermione, he asked "Where is she? Is she awake?"

Hermione's face visibly tightened. Ron took it as a sign that someone, somewhere disregarded better judgment and chose to not listen to her. "She woke up this morning." Hermione growled. Her bag produced a bottle of Southern Comfort, which she waved into the kitchen with her wand. "She wants bourbon. Unbelievable."

Fleur swept close to Hermione and proceeded to gently pat her back. This gesture had not gone unnoticed by Ron. _Since when are they so close, _he wondered.

Fleur's expression lightened once Hermione seemed to have calmed down. "If she is in the mood for bourbon, she is in the mood to work. We will sort this out easier if she has some in her system. The glass is on top shelf, to the right."

Hermione lifted her wand. "On it."

She gave Hermione's shoulder an affectionate squeeze as she faced Harry and Ron. Before Ron could properly formulate his thoughts, Fleur showed them a door. "This way."

Harry and Ron stepped through the door, with a glass of light brown translucent liquid following them in. Considering the amount of bandage on her, the smell of singed flesh, and dittany, she seemed positively chipper. The bandaged woman on the bed brightened at the sight of the glass and took an appreciated gulp. "I owe you one, Hermione."

Hermione, now tired of admonishing Valerie, settled on a light shake of her head. "I'm still not entirely keen on the idea, just so you know."

Another gulp. "After this and I'm back to sleep, promise."

Fleur faced Harry and Ron. "This is my cousin, Valerie. She was attacked last night."

Ron had expected more of a scared and sniveling victim, to which his experience so far indicated that it was generally the norm. Despite the bandage obscuring her face, he could feel that she was smiling and probably beautiful. An air about her seemed to indicate that.

_Another veela_, surmised Ron.

The duo gathered around the bedside while exchanging a look, to which Ron nodded a 'Go on and take this one. I won't last'. Harry waved his wand and wordlessly produced a notepad and a quill. "Just for the record, what is your name?"

"Valerie Garcia Surin." When met with a confused glance from Ron, she offered an explanation. "Spain and their two last names."

"Right." Harry nodded. "What is the purpose of your visit to the UK?"

Valerie looked at Harry as if he had grown another face. "Since when are Aurors part-timing as immigration?"

Harry offered a self-depreciating smile. "Please. Anything helps at this point. It's not every day we got a foreign visitor being attacked on English soil."

It her body had not hurt so much, she would have laughed at how Harry had not taken the bait. She wasn't the type to go starry-eyed in front of a celebrity, but she had to admit that she liked him. "Since you're so nice about it… I'm here to visit my cousin and pay my respects to my former mentor."

Harry's quill noted it down. He glanced at the notepad and lightly nodded at the quill. "Where were you attacked?"

"Merlinswood Cemetery. Just outside of Cokeworth. It's a muggle town. Same goes for the cemetery for the most part."

Hermione considered this. "No wonder we haven't been alerted. I mean, the Ministry has little reason to be looking over a muggle town since we're still rebuilding from the War."

Valerie nodded in agreement. "So." She began, turning back to Harry. "I understand that the Ministry is investigating Umbro Horliner's murder."

Fleur looked at her cousin, eyes searching for answers. Valerie bowed her head sadly. "Sorry, _cousine_. I haven't been entirely straightforward with you two."

Fleur took a short breath to steady herself. "Never mind that. More the reason to get the bastard."

A pause. Harry then nodded, consenting silently to sharing information. "Yes, we are. We have a man in custody as we speak."

Valerie stared at Harry for a moment before settling back into the bed. They were probing her, providing the bare minimum. So it was going to be an information trade-off, one where she would have to give more than take. She knew this was coming, but that had not eased her frustration when it really came down to it. "The man you are looking for is his son. He is the one behind all of this."

The man named Harry seemed amused, perhaps at the fact that she knew her attacker. "Was he the one who attacked you?"

"None other."

Ron rubbed his eyebrows, which were furrowed to the point where it seemed like the tiny hairs wanted curl back inside and die. "More details would be lovely, by the way."

"And before you ask stupid questions like 'How are you sure?' and 'Why would he do it?', Mr. Weasley." The bandaged woman tapped her temple. "It's all in here."

Ron couldn't resist the urge to crinkle his face. "Are you in habit of accosting authority figures?"

Valerie had no reason to lie. If anything, she felt amused by the man and how his guard seemed to be down throughout all this. Not what Valerie herself would have done, but she was what most people would consider to be "anal" in her line of work. But considering the Auror's reputation it was only fitting. Knowing what she knew of Harry Potter, the man had seen what most people would colloquially call '_terrifying shit'_. "More often than not," she admitted.

Since Ron was holding her attention, he continued the rapport. "I assure you that, regardless of your previous inclinations towards the possibly lawless side of things, we're on your side."

Valerie shrugged. That is, as much as she could with the full-body bandaging. Her money was on her cousin to be the one who was overly generous with the wrapping. "I know. I wouldn't have agreed to have Aurors be called in otherwise. And for the record, what I do is perfectly legal."

The Auror called Ron searched her expression. Valerie observed him back calmly. Behind his relaxed face was a brain, with a series of cogs now turning to determine the weight of her words. Valerie resisted the urge to smirk. He was trying to figure her out on the spot, fighting back the urge to succumb to her veela charms. Commendable man, Valerie finalized. Ron Weasley was dangerous man, no less than Harry Potter. A duo of strategist and gung-ho. If this was how these two were during work hours, she would not want to face them.

Finally, Ron nodded. "We can do that. With your consent, of course. Quite a few people are put off by Legilimency. Harry is the Legilimens here, so you're in good hands."

That was a load off Valerie's mind. "Are British Aurors always this nice?"

Harry shrugged. "Not usually. Then again, you're the victim right now."

"Victim!" Valerie spat. The words felt like a slab, a reminder of her own uncharacteristic incompetency. "I am no victim. Just unlucky."

As Harry and Ron stood by the bedside and took Valerie's statement regarding the night of the attack, Hermione extended her open palm towards Fleur. Fleur saw it and looked pensive before responding back, her own hand opened. _So Fleur taught her_, noted Valerie as she saw this. _And to someone who's not family. Now I can say I've seen everything._

"Since you have offered us this information, we need to ask this." Ron looked pensive for a moment, choosing his words. "What was your relationship with Mr. Horliner?"

"I was his apprentice for 4 years."

"You two were close, then." From the way Harry remarked, it was not a question. "And his son?"

The air around her grew thick at the question. "He hated me from the very start. Thought he was being passed over for succession. No such thing, of course. Master loved Marc, right up to the moment he joined the ranks of he-who-shall-not-be-named."

Ron's eyes glinted. "That's a serious accusation you're making."

Valerie's head whipped to face the red-haired man. Her eyes blazed at the man. "And I would not say it if it was not true. Marc is a Death Eater. He has no Mark, but he is what he is. 'Pruning the family tree', they called it." She cringed with distaste at the Death Eater ideology. "Master is Muggle-born, and that's precisely what Marc did."

And he evaded capture all this while?" The question hung in the air as Harry exchanged looks with his partner. Whatever Valerie saw between them, it was not fear. Hermione, just a fly on the wall at the moment, had the look of deep concentration. Fleur simply seemed angry. All the varying emotions made sense. After all, they all had a personal score to settle with the Dark Lord and those who followed him.

And now, with her master gone, so does she.

* * *

Ron closed the door behind him, leaving Harry and Valerie to their business. He, Hermione, and Fleur now inside the living room. Settling at the sofa, Fleur waved for them a cup of tea each.

"Most sarcastic victim I've had yet, your cousin," mused Ron.

Fleur smiled guilty, meeting Ron's and Hermione's eyes. "She is otherwise very nice, I swear."

Ron playfully shrugged. "Must be my charms bringing that out that side of people."

And there it was again, the smoldering look between the two. It was a blink and you might miss it moment. But since becoming a full-fledged Auror, it was his job to notice the little things. The two women stood fairly apart, but almost self-consciously so. To him, it was becoming clear.

"Blimey," he muttered. "So… I don't know how to broach this subject tactfully but… Are you two…?"

Hermione inched closer to her before meeting him evenly. "Together, yes."

Ron noticed Hermione's set jaws and raised his hands up defensively. "Whoa! I didn't mean anything by that, honest. And if you want me to leave because of the past, it's fine. Just say the word."

Fleur's eyes widen. "No, no, no. Please stay."

Hermione sighed a breath of relief, perhaps expecting a different line of questioning. "We insisted on you and Harry in the first place. And there's truly, truly no one else I would trust this to."

Ron rubbed his nose. His cheeks were beginning to grow warm. Suddenly talking to Hermione after all this time, he simply felt glad that she didn't hate his guts. "That's… nice of you to say. I was a crummy boyfriend. Didn't know what to think when I got your message this morning."

Hermione got up and threw herself at him and gave him a short, tight hug. "You're still my friend, Ron. We haven't survived a war together just to abandon all that."

Ron looked at the older woman. "And you, Fleur? Are you alright with me around?"

Fleur blinked. "Why are you asking me?"

"You're my friend too. And since you're her… boyfriend?" Ron looked as if he wanted slap himself. "Girlfriend! Or is it life-partners now? Sorry. This is new to me." Hermione couldn't resist laughing at her awkwardly struggling friend and the sudden shift of atmosphere. She felt less tired at the face of this light-hearted conversation. "…You know what I mean. Your opinion matters too."

"Oh, Ron." Fleur got up and pulled him into a hug also. "I am glad you are here." She shook his shoulders playfully. "And I am glad that you two are finally talking after all this time of tip-toeing around each other."

"He was the one doing most of that," said Hermione.

Ron crumpled his face in mock objection. "I was under the impression that you wanted to rip my head off, or so the grapevine goes."

Hermione smirked. "I thought I would spare you, considering your mother would do a much better job in that regard."

"Oh, she gave me hell for that one. Every family dinner." Ron wrapped his arms around the two women who were now seated on each side of the sofa, with him in between. "Speaking of which, you both really should come next Christmas. She's still angry, but still quite reasonable regarding me and Bill. And you two haven't seen the new Burrow yet."

Fleur met Hermione's glance and nodded. After all, how could she refuse after such an invitation? It felt like a warm, bright light at the end of the bleak and deary tunnel. "We will," they agreed. "Once this is all sorted, we'll definitely come."

* * *

It really has been too long since I last updated. Sorry! I _do _plan on finishing this story, of course. I don't know how long it will take, but I'll finish it.


	13. Interlude

I'm technically supposed to be training for my karate belt test right now, but what the hell. Here's a short chapter. Hopefully it'll be a breath of fresh air from all the plot for you guys. I kinda need that break for myself too. I know the ending that I want for these two. It's just reaching there is a bit of a problem. Call me a sadist, but I want Hermione and Fleur to earn their happy ending.

Sometimes I catch myself writing original work and feel guilty for doing so. Charmed is still unfinished after all. I can't believe it has been 3 years already. I started this fic when I started uni, mostly to curb loneliness. So maybe I'll finish it in time for graduation? (Hahaha)

/rant

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Interlude

As soon as Harry and Ron left, Hermione settled herself on the sofa beside Fleur. Despite being only midday, Hermione felt drained. Fleur's state was not much different, with her shoulders hunched and elbows propped on her knees like they were the only things keeping her body from falling head-first into the cauldron.

Sensing her glance, Fleur tucked a lock of silver-blonde hair behind her ear and rose her head up to meet her eyes. A slight smile crept up to reassure her. That was enough for Hermione to know that she was fine. Still, in the midst of all this uncertainly, Hermione craved to give and to receive a more solid form of intimacy. She smoothed out her robe and patted her thigh. When Fleur blinked curiously at her gesture, she rolled her eyes and led Fleur down by the shoulders towards her lap.

Once Fleur fully unwound and sprawled across the sofa, Hermione fully relished the warm pressure of Fleur's head resting on her lap. She remembered the sensations of each and every time she felt Fleur's weight on her form. While all were great in their own rights, this was different. It's nothing to write home about with its chasteness, but the act itself was its own reward. Hermione let calming effect wash over her, relishing the complete lack of urgency. It was as if they exist in an isolated bubble of time where things remained static and they could, for the time being, feel at ease. With this seemingly infinite time, Hermione felt like she wanted to spoil her woman before her for as long as she will have her.

_My woman_, she tested out the concept in her mind and felt heat radiating from ear to ear as she had done so. Still, she loved the sound of it. Her fingers found the silver-blonde locks and began stroking along the length tenderly. Perhaps, long ways from now, this was what it will feel like when they were old and gray and their fiery passion tamed. No matter what was thrown at them, they would have each other.

_If this is wrong, then I'll make it right_, she decided.

The dark blue eyes gazed back at her, already half-closed with bliss. Hermione must have had a certain look on her face, for Fleur reached up to caress her cheek. The words that came only confirmed what Hermione already saw in her lover's eyes. "I love you too."

They rested happily, if only for a moment. Hermione kneaded the stress along Fleur's hairline till the soft moans of pleasure turned into light, paced breathing. She then nudged herself into a crook of the armrest and joined Fleur in sleep.

It was late afternoon when they found themselves reenergized. They went about their business, with Hermione pouring over series of tombs and texts and Fleur over her desk. No matter where she looked, Fleur still had no idea what "CCTV" or "Remington .45 ACP" meant.

All the while, Fleur would look from the parchment and towards the bedroom where Valerie was. When Hermione caught Fleur looking at the bedroom door again, she got up from the sofa, skipped over the piles, and nudged Fleur lightly.

"You two should talk."

Fleur glanced at the bedroom door before meeting her with furrowed brows. "I do not know what to say."

Landing a peck on the cheek, Hermione said: "I'm sure you already do."

Fleur slumped, resigned. She knew full well Hermione was right. She had been thinking long and hard about what to say to her cousin. But so many things to say and all in the wrong order in her mind. "Would you come with me?" she asked hopefully.

"You two need to sort yourselves out first. I'll be right outside, promise."

Fleur breathed in deeply. She got up from her chair and turned to look at Hermione. Then she saw it. That expression of complete trust that made her stood a little taller.

Hermione took this opportunity to send some courage with a light slap on one of Fleur's tight, sizable butt cheeks.

Despite obvious nervousness, a mischievous glint lit Fleur's eyes. "Save that for tonight."

"Of course." Hermione smiled. "But remember, it's not night yet."

* * *

The door opened and her cousin stepped through with uncertain steps.

Fleur scanned her features. "_Can we talk?_"

Uh oh. Valerie knew that face. Downcast eyes, overly straight back, and hands wrung to oblivion. It was the signature "I don't know how do this" dance. Granted, the list of things her cousin couldn't do was short, its contents separated by large spacing. Unfortunately, "approaching a sensitive subject" was one of them.

"_Look at you, suddenly so shy. So unbecoming of a Delacour_," teased Valerie. She patted her bedside with a bandaged hand weakly. "_You know you can talk about anything with me."_

Fleur then closed the distance and engulfed Valerie in a tight embrace. "_I'm sorry for your loss, Val."_

Valerie nodded numbly. Despite a series of naps, the Legilimency before had left her worse for wear. She felt raw, naked. But the hug hadn't hurt, at least. If things were left to her devices, she would have fled for somewhere more private. But, no. She owed it to her cousin to clarify things.

She began, slowly at first._ "I should have told you earlier… About why I really came here. I wanted to be sure first. About Marc. About Master's death." _Valerie gripped the fabric of her cousin's shirt. "And now I know."

_"I'm just glad he didn't kill you."_ Fleur's voice shook from holding back the floodgates._ "I was really scared for you. I wish you would have told me sooner. I could have helped. __**We**__ could have."_

Valerie shrunk at this._ "I'm sorry. I didn't want to pull you into my personal drama."_

With her most emotions having been unleashed, Fleur settled back on her side of the bed. She clasped her cousin's hands silently._ "That's what family is for."_

* * *

Hermione sipped her tea. She pried herself away from the open pages to note the stark silence of the place and, more importantly, of the bedroom just beyond the door behind her. She had three scenarios in mind. First, things were going well and her lover was having a proper talk with her cousin. Second, a fight broke out, likely due to Valerie's stubborn refusal to just up and out with it. Third, one of the cousins, or both, was by now crying. Regardless, she speculated that she won't be able to hear a peep through the door due to Fleur's silencing charm.

She addressed Crookshanks as he lay curled at her feet. "If only you could go in there and check on them," she said wistfully.

Crookshanks' only sign of acknowledgement was to lift his head up slightly, before settling down again. _It's alright. Stop worrying_, he seemed to say.

Hermione sighed, conceding defeat. "Your lack of stress is the stuff of legends."

Her pet flicked his tail lazily against her legs, disregarding her snark. Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to the page before her. "Cultivation of Origanum dictamnus in the Isles: History and Guide," she muttered as her eyes followed the heading. If Valerie was going to recover completely and quickly, she knew they were going to need a lot more dittany. She flipped through the pages, hoping to find a directory of shops.

Two slender arms pulled her from behind and hugged her tight, breaking her preoccupation. Hermione yelped in surprise, then settled into the crook of the older woman's shoulder and happily received the peck on her cheek.

"It went well, I take it."

Fleur mumbled in her ear. "Uhhuh."

Fleur's voice was almost… nasal. Hermione turned to look at her lover, not that it did much good. From where her head was, she could only see the quarter-veela's smooth neck and streams of silvery hair. Another sniffle.

Hermione narrowed her eyes in disbelief. "Were you crying?"

The question elicited a guilty sniffle and a shifty glance from Fleur. "Nonsense. I do not cry."

"_Riiiight_. And I'm currently wearing a mermaid-hair tutu."

Fleur's head quickly shifted down at that, eager to catch a glimpse. "Are you?" Her voice was incredulous.

Hermione playfully swatted the interlocked hands in front of her. "Nope. Still a robe. Sorry to disappoint."

"Have you ever worn one?"

"What? A tutu?" Hermione leaned back into Fleur's leaning shoulder and recalled the one time her mother thought it had been a good idea to pull her from her books and got her to join a ballet class. It had been an attempt to get her to "come out of her shell", perhaps. Even as a child, she typically kept to herself and preferred to gawk at books than toys or boys. She was young then and it was the sort of things parents typically do. To this day, she still cringed at the thought and continued to cringe even now. "Once. What about you?"

"No. It is poufy and inelegant. An embarrassment to wear." Despite how Fleur's voice was lithe in teasing, Hermione huffed. "Speaking of _embarrassment_, do you have a photograph of it?"

Hermione gave it a thought. She had fully restored all traces of her in her childhood home when she gave her parents back their memories. It had been the little things, like old photographs, toys, and books. One that might stand out in particular was a broken wooden bookshelf situated in attic with a carving "For little Hermione" to its lower left side. The shelf had broken down when she was nine from the sheer amount of books piled onto it, but no one had the heart to throw it away. "Probably somewhere back in my parents' house," she concluded.

Fleur's voice was light with glee. "Now _this _I need to see."

"That's not fair! What about _**your**_ embarrassing photos?"

"I always look fabulous. Always." If Fleur was not hugging her, Hermione was sure her lover would have twirled for added effect.

Hermione laughed at Fleur's mock-serious indignation and leaned to plant a peck on the older woman's neck. "No arguments there," she said. "But I'll still make it my life's work to find one."

Fleur groaned in mock protest. "Of all the things to choose to get serious over… And with Horliner still out there too."

Hermione clasped her lover's hands firmly. "They'll get him. I know they will."

* * *

It was a calm night for the both of them. Sure, they couldn't use the bed because Valerie was currently in deep sleep and that they had to take rounds to tend to her wounds. But any unease to the change of their routine was washed away in intervals by frequent time on the sofa. When Fleur started to fret again and was promptly chased out by Valerie hours ago, her time on the sofa was permanent for the night.

Hermione patted Fleur's sulking face. Her cheeks were starting to balloon until Hermione smoothed them over. "You can't rush healing," she coaxed.

"We are witches. I would like to think that we can."

"We can _help_ shorten the process. The rest, we leave to nature."

The pout broke and Fleur grinned weakly. The sense of silliness and self-admonition started to wash over her. "Sometimes I forget that you are younger than me," she said.

As Hermione remembered it, their age gap was roughly a two years difference. "You help me finish my black pudding, so you're the mature one by far."

"I just think of it as a more bland version of _boudin_. Not a fair comparison, really." Fleur shrugged. "Oh. Valerie asked if admitting her to a hospital would be a good idea. You know, before she chased me out."

Hermione gave it a thought. "It would, now that she's stable enough to relocate. And if he hasn't followed her here by now, he probably won't. If he does eventually, at least St. Mungo's is secure enough. Why? Does she want to?"

"She said something about… 'getting out of our hair' so we can 'fuck like rabbits'. I think that is the closest I can translate to English." Fleur chuckled.

Hermione failed to fight off the temptation to roll her eyes. "Injured and _still_ gutter-minded."

The quarter-veela's face pushed close and her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Still, that was accurate, no?"

Hermione leaned closer to meet her lover for a peck. An amused grin crossed her face as she pulled away to get a better look of the older woman. Even with the slightly puffy eyes from the crying before and the now-late night, Fleur looked positively delicious_. Down, girl,_ she ordered her libido.

After a moment, Hermione managed to find self-restraint and deadpanned: "Sure. We also shop for groceries together, but no one ever mentions that."

Fleur giggled. "Oh, yes. Bickering over the cereal aisle. _**How scandalous**_."

"We kiss and make up and decide to get both kinds in the end." Hermione pointed towards the kitchen for added effect. "Is _that_ scandalous?"

"No," said Fleur as she scooped Hermione close by the shoulder. Lips to ear, she whispered: "But how you mentioned that you would like to lick honey off my body definitely went straight to that territory."

Hermione blushed. "That was _one_ time. One. Such is the punishment for being so bold."

Fleur fanned herself with a hand in mock-serious. "Pray that we don't try it in the store. Merlin forbid someone we know might see. Someone like Ginny, who I remember to be not such a big fan of mine."

Hermione thought about Ginny, imagined her friend's reaction, and groaned. "Don't jinx it. She's not around much because of Quidditch, but don't expect peace and quiet from now on. If Harry and Ron knows about us, it's only a matter of time before she comes storming."

That got Fleur laughing. "It seems strong reactions tend to run in the Weasleys."

Hermione laughed in agreement. "Be scared. Be _very _scared."

They took a moment to gather their sides. Then Hermione got the conversation going again, but away from Ginny's possible overreaction. "What about your family? They seem normal enough." Hermione remembered seeing Fleur's parents during her now-lover's and Bill's wedding, but she wasn't going to be the one to bring that part up.

Fleur's face crinkled in thought. "They are, aside from my father's love for unconventional nature walks. 'No magic', he would say." When Hermione gave her a confused look, Fleur added. "My grandfather was muggle-born. My father grew up with such walks and saw it fit to carry on the tradition. We would have too-large bags without any charms to help us. Gabby would get tired and I would carry her bag also."

That made sense why Fleur never bought the idea of the so-called blood purity, Hermione noted. Still, she had Fleur's grandfather to thank for Fleur's fine physique. "Do you like them? The walks, I mean."

A light smile graced Fleur's features. "I think I like them. They were tiring, but I got to see things I normally would not see. And it feels good to move around once in a while. Then again, it really does depend on the company."

Hermione felt her lover's hand on top of hers and saw the invitation in her eyes. Just when she thought Fleur has shown her all of her affectionate side, her lover never ceased to surprise. And that growing smile that matched her own was making Hermione jittery under the robes.

Hermione swallowed hard and tried hard to gather her thoughts. It would be so easy to fall in love with this woman all over again. "So it's a date?" she choked.

Fleur began running her thumb across Hermione's knuckles. Her dark blue eyes spoke of a deeper need, the kind that made Hermione wonder if they were still talking about nature walks. The hand on top of hers felt warmer by the seconds. The words that came out of her lover's mouth were soft yet tempered with passion: "It is one if you want it to be."

Hermione found her breath caught as she took in the shy yet unflinching lover before her. "I do. So where will we go? Is it a day trip or are we going to camp there?"

Fleur broke into a huge smile, seemingly glad that she said yes. "Anywhere you are most comfortable with. You know the area better than I do. And it can be a day trip if you like. This is all just planning. So we can have something to look forward to once everything has calmed down."

_Something to look forward to._ Hermione must admit she liked the sound of that. She thought long and hard about the few places she knew and the few times she had ever gone camping. Only one place came to mind. A place full of memories, old and new, kind and painful. Perhaps, she decided, it was time for the pain to be overwritten. Hermione met Fleur's gaze squarely and full of hope. "I think I know where we can go."

* * *

Ten (nerd) points for those who can guess where Hermione has in mind.


End file.
